


Diabolique

by Rovardotter



Series: Not with a Bang but a Whimper [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A certain degree of Incest, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depravity, Games & Betrayals, J'aime l'amour à trois, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Terrible Choices, Winterfell is still a warzone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovardotter/pseuds/Rovardotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all fun and games until Theon has the upper hand.</p><p>Chapter 6, in which the young men arise and play before Theon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Third Man

**Author's Note:**

> The following unfortunate events take place a few months after the conclusion of [Breathless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/849696/chapters/1623944).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had become a vicious circle of desire: Robb provoking Jon to make him drown them deeper into depravity, so he could tell of it to Theon word by word, and return to Jon bursting at the seams with overwhelming want.
> 
> Chapter 1, in which Robb glimpses over the edge of the abyss.

Happiness, they said, was a game of cyvasse.

Robb was winning so far, and he'd earned every right to enjoy it while he could. At last, all the pieces were perfectly placed. The wine pitcher stood on his nightstand; the summer snow gathered on the window sill; the two direwolf pups cuddled on the floor rug, next to the cackling hearth which warmed the chill of the afternoon air. Grey Wind's paw rested on Ghost's snowy fur, while the smaller pup laid his little, silent head between his brother's legs. On the bed, Robb's fingers tangled in Jon's black mess of curls as his brother rested his head on his belly, sucking bruises into the pale skin of his hips. The heavy wooden trunk lay open by their feet, all but forgotten.

"Leaving is hard," Robb sighed and rose to his elbow as his brother's lips released the reddish mark right above his hipbone. "I will miss you, Snow."

"Aye," Jon said. "Me too."

His brother still did not do talking so well, but at least they had no more secrets between them.  _Not anything that matters, anyway_. Jon was not as prone to his dark moods as before, and the smile came to his lips more easily. And when they had shared their furs, which they often and readily had, the vengeful streak had almost disappeared from Jon's hard thrusts into him. He had not grown soft.  _Far from it_. He still bent Robb roughly over and tested his limitations each time anew; he still always found a way of driving him over the edge of lust and madness. Instead of angry and hateful, however, it had now become almost compassionate, as if it was a shared journey to see just how much Robb could bear before he broke down.

Robb couldn't help being curious himself. Jon had already shattered to pieces that blushing little boy who had run away from a feast and had gotten himself painfully fucked in the sept in front of his mother's eyes. Robb had taken to playing the game with a startling passion. His hands still trembling, he would now readily indulge Jon's most twisted ideas. His cheeks still flushed, he would breathlessly give in to his own sick desires with a loose abandon. He had gone too far, had surrendered too much, and had liked what he had found.  _I'd hate to admit it_ , he thought as Jon's tongue flickered across his belly to his navel, sending shivers up his spine,  _but mayhaps I too want to see the bottom of the abyss_.

"We have time," he told Jon. "We do."

"No," Jon said. "You need to pack," he planted a circle of kisses around his navel. "And I have to go to my lessons."

"I wish you could come," Robb said. Things had threatened to change at a sudden and alarming rate. It had been a week since their lord father had confirmed the rumour about King Robert's visit to Winterfell. They had barely gotten used to the bustle of activity which followed suit, before Lord Eddard announced his plans to leave for a brief tour of the northern holdings. This time, he said, it would not be just Robb and Theon accompanying him, but also Bran, who had been judged old enough to join. Jon's eyes darkened at this announcement. Robb did not know whether it was their separation which bothered his brother, or whether it was the blunt reminder of his baseborn status. He could have comforted him and reminded him of their oaths, but experience had taught him that Jon had little need for soft words. What Jon needed was an outlet, and even now, lying on his bed, the mere thought set Robb atremble.

"Mm," Jon muttered into his belly. "Just two weeks."

"Just two weeks," Robb repeated after him.

Sometimes, he would intentionally provoke Jon just to provide him with what he truly needed.  _And to see what he'd do to me. Mayhaps I want to see if it'd break me; mayhaps I want to see if I'd like it when it breaks me_. During that dinner, Robb had mused out loud, carelessly cruel, how unfair it must feel for Jon to watch little Bran rising up the ranks above him, and how utterly humiliating it would be once Rickon comes of age. Theon had chortled at that, as he had with almost every jape involving Jon, be it funny or not.

He had paid for that goading.  _Gods, ten times over_. On his back with Jon pumping angrily into him, with Jon's fingers clamped over his throat. Robb spent himself with a mute gurgle without even being touched, just before the world collapsed into darkness. Then he was padding silently through the godswood, the smell of blood in his nose. The moonlight filtered through the thick treetops. His brothers and sisters yowled hungrily by his side.  _Where did you go, sweet Robb?_  Jon asked him afterwards, his vengeance now fully drained inside his brother's battered body. Robb glimpsed over the edge of the abyss, and Jon found his outlet. Every piece was perfectly placed.

"And now, pack," Jon ordered him and pressed his lips to his skin for a one last red bruise. Then he rolled himself off the bed with a soft, wistful sigh. Ghost raised his head from Grey Wind's shaggy fur and looked at his master expectedly, tilting his little head.

"To me, Ghost," Jon said and turned to the door. "Until later, Stark. Give me a good chase tonight." His direwolf pup skulked silently after him. Grey Wind let out a small whine, rose to his paws and jumped on the bed, settling on the furs next to Robb.

"Don't worry," Robb let his head drop back to the mattress, his fingers scratching lazily behind his direwolf's ear. "I'll put up a fight, you'll see."

 

The sun had not yet set when Robb finished packing. He summoned his chamber maid to carry the wooden truck down to the yard, and then he stood by the window and watched the dusky sky for a while.  _Tomorrow I'd be away over those hills, and Jon would be watching my traces_. He found himself restless and his legs soon took him away from his bedchamber and down the stone stairs of the keep into the inner courtyard. Grey Wind treaded after him, stopping every now and then to nibble on his tail.

It was true chaos outside. Stacks of equipment, saddles, weapons and ration sacks were laid on the muddy gravel of the courtyard. A few servants were carrying trunks and luggage through the inner gate, all trying to pass through the narrow opening at once. Robb caught a glimpse of little Tilly with his trunk on her scrawny back, trying to squeeze her way between the older men while they shouted at each other. Sansa and Jeyne were leaning on the wall of the Great Hall, chattering excitedly, as they had almost incessantly since the announcement of the royal visit. His sister's friend gave him a yearning look which sent him the opposite direction, where his lady mother was studying a long parchment with Jeyne's father, Vayon Poole.

"Naturally we'd have to replace that," his lady mother said. "We cannot have the queen dining under a broken chandelier."

Robb stepped to stand by their side, nodding to Poole. The chandelier had shattered when Arya had terribly missed a throw of a turnip meant for Sansa during dinner, he recalled. He could no longer remember what had provoked his sister into a vegetable assault. It had happened right after he had wanked Jon off in the solar for the first time _. My mind was surely elsewhere._

"Mother," he greeted Lady Catelyn. "Do you need any help?"

His lady mother seemed distracted. At Least she no longer glared at her firstborn with that sickening mingle of disappointment and mistrust. Perhaps her suspicions had mellowed down. Perhaps she had simply given up on him. Whichever way it went, Robb knew that something had irrevocably changed between them. That was why he was more determined than ever to play the dutiful son around his parents.  _If I try hard enough,_ he figured, _maybe one day she would forgive me_.

"Not at the moment, thank you," she said, still looking at the parchment. "Find Theon, see if he requires assistance."

After a few minutes of searching, Harwin and Jory both confirmed to him that they had seen Theon creeping out of the kitchens and retreating up the stairs of the Keep when Lady Catelyn was looking the other way. Robb easily followed the tracks, with Grey Wind padding loyally by his side, and he soon found himself giving in to his new favourite game.

It was not a secret, not truly, that last piece which Robb had kept hidden up his sleeve. He too deserved an outlet, he told himself. Robb had no need to sneak into Theon's bedchamber like he did with Jon. Unfriendly eyes were still cast on him, certainly, ready to betray his transgressions to his parents. Nevertheless, Robb somehow doubted his father's ward would report to anyone how he had invited the heir to Winterfell into his bedchamber, and how they had both just finished a whole pitcher of Dornish red, and how they were now lying treacherously close to each other on Theon's bed.

"And just what," Robb drawled, happily tipsy, "are you planning to do tonight, Lord Greyjoy?"

Theon's arm was wrapped around his waist as they stretched their bodies on the bed. His hands had seldom wandered any further than Robb's waist or back, and he had not touched Robb much more than he had that day behind the broken windmill. It was, however, still too close, still too flirtatious. It had Robb thinking how Jon would react if he knew, and in which way he would drain out his jealousy. That thought had made him bothered and hard, and later he would sneak to Jon and spend in his brother's arms all that pent up arousal which Theon's touch had spread through him.

"Was going to meet with Kyra at the Smoking Log," Theon said. "But it's so fucking cold, I can't be arsed."

"Aye," Robb said. "And we'll be riding all day tomorrow."

Theon pulled him closer now and turned him over until they were facing each other on the bed, noses almost touching. His arms enveloped Robb and his palms moved to rest on the small of his back. From the foot of the bed, Grey Wind gave a small whimper. Robb started to feel the heat building inside of him, and he yielded to it willingly.

"I'll stay inside," Theon's voice dropped. "I'll have little Tessa here. It's been a while since that wench gave me a good suck. She's got a mouth made for sucking cock."

"So you say."

"When was the last time your brother gave you a good suck?" Theon asked and his fingers trailed on Robb's back.

"Two… no, make it three days ago."

"On his knees?"

"No," Robb shut his eyes, recalling. "While I was sleeping. I woke up and just… you know, spent in his mouth."

If their physical contact was still subdued and restrained, their words certainly were not. When it had started, this new game of theirs, Theon was the one to tell Robb fanciful stories of his conquests. Theon was older and more experienced, and he definitely had no qualms about putting his filthy actions into words. Slowly, by the measure in which Robb had agreed to further indulge Jon's desires, Theon had also started prodding Robb with questions he'd had no right to ask.  _But gods how arousing it is, and how good it feels to be asked all those dirty things as his fingers trail lower._ He would pull out Robb's depravity like a string of pearls from his mouth, slowly collecting night after night until Robb was constantly keen to sink into Theon's arms, to lose himself to his soft touch on his back and confide in him every memory of mouth on his cock, fingers in his ass, hard long fucks in his bedchamber, the kitchens, the broken tower. It was the most delicate kind of pleasure when he managed to shock even Theon's hardened sensibilities, as he had with his tale of asphyxiation and delirium. It had become a vicious circle of desire: Robb provoking Jon to make him drown them deeper into depravity, so he could tell of it to Theon word by word, and return to Jon bursting at the seams with overwhelming want.

Theon snorted. "I've had a girl do that to me once," he said. "Woke up the moment she started sucking me."

"I was exhausted."

"I bet you were," Theon's fingers fluttered between his shoulder blades. "The way you boys fuck, I can see how your father has sired so many whelps."

Robb had no will left to chide him for speaking this way about his lord father, and perhaps he didn't care to anymore.  _Mayhaps I like it just fine_. Theon's fingers felt so nice there, rubbing up and down on his back. His breath quickened, ragged and shallow. He pressed his brow against Theon's and allowed himself to plunge further into that shameful heat.  _Jon, if only you could see me now. What would you do to me? And how much would I like it?_

"I wish we boys could fuck more," Robb said and laughed.

One of Theon's hands now moved to his hair and crept slowly between his messy curls, fingers resting just under his ear. "And what will you do tonight, Lord Stark?" he asked.

"You'll like that," Robb said, feeling taut and charged as his favourite part of the game commenced.  _And this time Jon has provided me with good cards_.

"Will I?"

"Mm, I'll go to the godswood."

"What of it?" Theon edged closer, his mouth under Robb's chin. "It's fucking cold."

"Jon'll keep me warm," Robb laughed again. His head was pulsing with wine and arousal as he felt the moisture from Theon's warm breath gathering on the soft patch of skin between his chin to the back of his ear. He was already so hard that it was a torture not to be able to touch himself and earn a sort of relief.

Theon was not impressed. "Love in the godswood. Not very inspired."

"Not love," Robb corrected him. "There won't be any love there."

Theon cocked his brow, now intrigued.

"He's going to hunt me down like a hog," Robb's voice came out husky and low, and he could not help but squirm in Theon's arms. "He'll chase me and I'll struggle… I'll put up a good fight, give it all I've got, but it won't be good enough. He'll have me pinned to the ground." Grey Wind rose from the floor and started pacing the width of the bed, letting out a low wail. "He'll force me down and beat me up until I can't move anymore. He'll shove his cock in me and fuck me farewell so hard I'll remember it for the next two weeks."

Theon stared at him for a long moment. Then he chuckled. "You win," he said and kissed Robb under his ear. "I like it."

"I knew you would," Robb said, his body shuddering under the touch. He was so ready, so tense.

"Does Snow know?" Theon whispered in his ear. "Does he know how I prepare you for him? Would he thank me for it?"

Robb swallowed and shut his eyes.

"How close are you, Robb?"

 _Pretty damn close_  would be the answer.

"I bet you'd spend yourself the moment I touch you."

"Don't touch me," Robb stuttered, as he always had. And this was truly his favourite part.

Theon nuzzled at his ear, slowly. "I'd fuck you if I wanted to."

Robb took a long moment to articulate an answer, too lost to the torturous heat inside of him. "Lucky for me you don't," he mumbled.

"One day I might, lad," Theon said. His lips closed on his ear lobe in a soft bite. "I just might."

 

Grey Wind prowled in wide circles, Ghost at his heels, pressing deep paw prints into the fresh snow on the ground. The woods were silent but the occasional hoot of a night bird and the rustle of the wind through the weirwood leaves. Once, Robb used to come here and confess his sins while tears welled in his eyes.  _Seems like a lifetime ago._   _Seems like it was another person altogether._  Now he ran by the trees, hiding between the thick trunks, trying to keep his distance from his brother.

For all his swagger in front of Theon, his heart was pounding heavily in his chest from the moment he had entered the godswood. He couldn't see Jon, but Ghost was chasing Grey Wind ( _playfully, it seems_ ) so his master must have been lurking close by. Robb silently circled the cluster of sentinels again.

When he saw his brother, it was almost too late to escape. Jon had crept on him from behind the ironwood tree to his right, his dark cloths and hair blending almost completely with the blackness of the woods. Robb saw the glint of his eyes a moment before his fingers closed on him. And then he fled.

Grey Wind howled as Robb sped between the trees, dodging overgrown branches and leaves, edging around the hot pools and trying to stay out of the hauntingly pale light of the full moon. For a while he thought he had managed to lose Jon in the thicket of the forest, then his direwolf howled again in the distance and his brother darted on him. Robb scuttled around the weirwood, but Jon was quicker.  _Or perhaps he isn't, but I can't escape any longer_. His legs were wobbling; he anxiously wanted the game to truly begin.

Jon's hand grabbed his collar and then he shoved him down on the ground. They sank into the fresh snow, watery flakes and mud covering Robb's auburn curls and his flushed cheeks as he struggled against the heavy weight on his chest. He had allowed himself to wrench free of Jon's grasp a couple of times and once even smashed his fist forcefully into Jon's chest. Then his brother kicked him hard in the stomach, Robb cowered and Jon took advantage of his sharp pain to flip him over and pin him down to the ground.

"Do it hard, Snow," Robb whispered, his head pressed down to the snow. "I can take it."

"Another word," Jon growled, "And I'll kill you."

He yanked him up by his hair until Robb yelled in pain, and kicked him between his legs, spreading them apart. Tears flooded Robb's eyes and he desperately writhed, trying to fight his way far from the flurry of fists which started to rain over his back and shoulders. He thought of an evening not so long ago when it was him over Jon's chest and of the wonderful retribution of a well-placed fist.  _Let him have his victory_ , Robb thought and sagged down against the cold snow.

His body was quivering in pain and the tears mingling with melted snow down his cheeks when Jon yanked him again on all fours and tugged roughly on his breeches. Robb was cold and so agonizingly hard he had let out a soft whimper when he felt Jon pressing behind him.

"Beg me not to do it," Jon said.

"Don't do it, Snow, please," Robb mumbled. His brother's cock rubbed against his backside. Jon pulled harder on his hair and then tilted his head and shoved a finger into him. Grey Wind howled again in the distance and Robb yelped faintly.

"Louder."

"Don't do it, please, please, Jon," Robb begged. "I'd do anything, please. Just don't hurt me. Please."

Jon pushed another finger inside and moved them roughly back and forth. The pressure was so intense that Robb almost slumped back down to the snow, the tug on his hair the only force keeping him up.

"Tell me you'd give me anything."

"Please, please, Jon," Robb wept. "You're my brother, you're not supposed to hurt me like that. Please let me go. I'd give you anything. Anything you want. Please, I beg you. I'd give you Winterfell. Let me go…"

"You know what I want, Stark?" he pulled his fingers out and cuffed Robb hard on his head.

"Let me go," Robb sobbed.

"I want to fuck you until you scream," Jon growled. With a kick he spread his legs apart again, held him still in place and entered him fully with one long, slow push. The howls of his wolf behind the weirwood drowned Robb's own.

Jon's thrusts were firm and hard, pulling out completely and then burying his cock inside his brother until Robb cried out. The cold of the forest ground cut into his palms and knees as he struggled to stay upright, lost to the maddening pace and to the heat swelling in his loins, lost to the fear of leaving Jon behind, of playing his forbidden games with Theon, of the abyss spreading out in front of his blurry eyes. He was still begging to Jon in a desperate voice.  _Let me go. Please. It hurts. Jon. Why do you do that to me? Let me go._ And he was close. So close.

Grey Wind yowled.

The scrunch of footsteps. A bowstring pulled tight. By the time they had noticed, it was too late.

"Let go of my son," said Lord Stark. Next to him stood Theon Greyjoy, his bow aimed at Jon's head. He was smiling.

Robb's first thought was not fear, nor shame. It was,  _now they'd kill Jon and I'd be free of this madness_. Perhaps that was the most horrible thing of all. More horrible than the look on his lord father's face, or the wide grin on Theon's lips. Then Jon pulled out, but he did not let go of Robb's hair. He stood up on his feet, yanking Robb after him, his face buried in Robb's neck.  _So they can't kill him_ , Robb realised with a sharp hot pain. He felt as if he was drowning. As through the haze of a dream, he pulled up on his breeches to cover his disgrace. Grey Wind skulked behind them, moaning pitifully, his muzzle low on the ground.

"Move away from him," Lord Stark said again, and Theon squinted, trying to find a better angle at Jon.

Robb breathed hard. "Please, Father," he heard himself say, his voice strangely collected and calm. "Don't hurt Jon. It's not what it seems."

His lord father stared at him.

"He didn't force me," Robb said. Jon sank his face into his hair, his body shivering behind him. "I wanted that. It was… a game."

"A game," Lord Stark said.

"Jon only did what I'd asked him to do," Robb said, and Jon took a sharp breath. "Please, Father. Swear you won't hurt him."

"I bet I can get him still," Theon said and drew the bow tighter.

"No, Theon," said Lord Stark and put his hand on Theon's arm. "I give you my word; no one will be hurt tonight. Now, let go of my son."

Jon deliberated, then he released his hold on Robb's hair and pushed him towards their father. Robb stumbled forward, his legs barely supporting his weight after the beating he had endured and the dull panic growing sharper inside of him with every passing moment. Theon caught him in a firm grip and pulled him to stand by their side.  _Now it's three against the bastard. Gods, Jon. I'm so sorry_.

"Take my son to his chamber," said Lord Stark to Theon. "And stay with him there. We leave at dawn."

His father's ward nodded and pulled on Robb's arm, marching him through the thick trees of the godswood. Robb looked back to catch a glimpse of Jon, and their eyes locked for the last time in what would be a long while. That was the way Robb would remember him: wild eyed, dishevelled, pale and shivering as a small child, with Ghost hiding between his legs. Then Theon yanked Robb around the weirwood and his brother and father disappeared between the leaves.

Robb had not said a thing to Theon until much later. He was not sure if there was anything left to say. Once in his bedchamber, Theon summoned a maid to prepare a hot bath and a fresh change of clothes. Robb silently washed himself of the snow, the mud, the godswood, and Jon, and Jon. He stared at his palms until he could not breathe anymore. Every piece was indeed perfectly placed, but it had never been Robb's game.

"Cheer up," Theon said, leaning against the wall. "The bastard will take the fall for you."

Robb swallowed his sob. "I will kill you, Theon," he swore quietly. "One day I will kill you."

"One day you will  _thank_  me," Theon's smile was wide and lewd. "And haven't I told you, lad? Men can like you and still stab you in the back."


	2. The Long Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa looked at the hearth, and Jon traced Robb's lines in her face. The same high cheekbones, the same curve of the mouth, the same straight nose. Their lips were rosy and full, their eyes blue and bright. _I'd do anything just to hold your hand if it would allow me to extract Robb out of you_ , he thought.
> 
> Chapter 2, in which Jon only goes with her because she looks like him.

Jon had not yet conceded defeat.

The new morning brought him no relief. Seven mornings had risen over Winterfell since Lord Stark rode north, but it seemed to Jon that they had never left the godswood at all.  _Leaving is hard_ , his brother had said, but as always sweet Robb was served the better dish and wasn't even aware of it. If leaving was hard, then staying was harder. 

Jon carried fresh hay from the stables and spread it in the main hall of the Guest House. Jon carried ale barrels from the cellars and silverware from the scullery. It seemed to him that he had been carrying things from one part of the castle to another for as long as he could remember. He was tired; his muscles were sore. He found himself dozing off at the high table, too exhausted to lift his fork. And yet he continued to follow Lady Stark's endless barrage of commands; he had to keep his hands busy or he would surely go mad.  _As you say, my lady_ , he thought vacantly. _You do not know a thing yet, do you, my lady? My father kept you in the dark, just like he did with me. Which one would it be, the Wall or the sword? And just what kind of game is Robb playing with Greyjoy_?

When he closed his eyes, he could still hear Grey Wind's howls growing fainter as Greyjoy dragged Robb after him. He could still see the spectral moonlight sifting through the thick canopy of the trees and feel his icy fingers trembling as he tied the laces of his breeches in front of his lord father's eyes. The woods had grown silent with Lord Stark's fury. Ghost had lain between Jon's legs, belly exposed and muzzle low on the ground. His father had asked him just three questions, three questions which would seal his fate.

 _I cannot think of it, I cannot_.  Jon carried bushels of fresh herbs from the glass gardens to the kitchens. Jon carried furs and feather pillows to the upper floor of the Guest House, which had been prepared with all the comforts befitting the royal family. Jon carried a sleeping Rickon from the Great Hall and thought of another small child with a mop of shaggy light curls, a bright eyed and pure child who would climb into his bed on winter nights so long ago.  _It's cold in my room_ , that child would say, and Jon would always let him under his furs.

Lord Stark's first question was, "Did you force my son?"

Robb may have been distant with their father ( _secretly he resents him_ ), but when Lord Stark said  _my son_ , it was clear which one of them he had meant. That would be the image forever engraved in their father's mind: his dark haired bastard son with his fingers tugging on the pretty auburn curls of his firstborn; the future Lord of Winterfell, his trueborn, violently forced down with his face washed with tears, begging to be  _let go_ , promising his birthright to Jon if he would  _just stop_. Their father had not seen Robb lost to his passion, spread eagle on the furs while urging Jon to  _do it hard, he could take it, he could_. Their father had known nothing of their games, how readily Robb had sunk into them, his content little smile afterwards ( _I liked it, gods, I did_ , he'd say and bury his face in Jon's neck.  _Why do I like it so?_ ), and how his son was hardly a pure child anymore. What he had seen was rape, plain and simple.

Robb had taken the blame upon himself. Jon would not have expected less from his noble brother. "I wanted that," he said, his voice strangely composed, as if he had not just been on all fours with his own brother's cock buried deep inside him. It had not changed much, though. He could tell their father that it was  _his idea_ , that it was  _a game_ , but those words had meant little and less when Jon was holding him hostage in front of Greyjoy's longbow. Robb had felt so malleable even then, when he was being used as a shield, that Jon fleetingly toyed with the idea of not letting go.  _We could run away to Dorne or to Lys. We'd have a small house by the sea. We'd watch the sunset on the western coast and together dream of home._ It was a complete madness. There was no use even thinking of it. Jon's only chance of survival was playing it smart, now more than ever. Confirming Robb's version ( _yes, it was his idea, he wanted that, your son gets hard just thinking about being bent over like the sweet little whore that he is_ ) would make him look guilty. If they both took the blame upon themselves, however, it would be a sure sign of complicity which might just save Jon's life.

"No," he had said, eyes cast on the ground. "It was a game. It was my idea, but I never forced him. I would never hurt him, Father. I swear."

Jon carried candles to the guest rooms. Jon carried stacks of firewood to the kitchens. Jon carried his head slumped down in his hands at the high table and wondered where it all went so wrong, so terribly wrong.

 

"He will return, you know," Arya said.

She sighed heavily as she dropped to the seat next to him at the dinner table. Attempting to avoid any possible mishap during the royal visit, her lady mother started to enforce a strict regime around the castle. It included first and foremost clean clothes for her younger daughter. His little sister trudged clumsily in her new grey dress. Her dark hair was tied up to a messy bun. Her locks, much like Jon's own, were striving to break free of their confinement.

"What?" Jon murmured. He was nodding off again after another fretful night. He had lain in his bed, furiously jerking himself off to no avail. He had tried to find himself an outlet, but all he could see was Greyjoy's lean fingers closing on Robb's arm, the overfamiliarity of his touch, and the last look Robb had given him with lost blue eyes.

"Robb, he'll return soon enough," Arya said. She helped herself to a generous serving of bacon and oat porridge and tore a thick slice from the freshly baked bread. "That's why you're so glum, isn't it?"

"That's why," Jon told her.  _He'll return, aye, but things will never be the same._

He missed his brother, more than he would ever admit to even to himself. Without Robb, the castle seemed to be made out of thin air, a vast empty expense as cold as the Long Night, and Jon could hardly find any sleep anymore. What little he slept was haunted by dark and disturbing dreams. Robb, drenched in sweat and flushed red, with his toes curling upwards under a thick layer of furs inside a faraway tent, his lips swollen, his mouth desperate, Greyjoy breathing heavily into the crook of his neck. Other times, Jon was prowling the godswood under the ghostly moonlight, howling loudly in wild pursuit, but his brother was gone. _Robb, what have you done?_

Jon had watched him leaving at the break of dawn from his window. He had not been allowed to say his farewells in person. After asking his three questions, Lord Stark concluded that his sentence would have to wait until after the royal visit. Nothing had been said about his brother, but Jon supposed he should not have to worry about him. Robb must have suffered a great disgrace in their father's eyes, but it was clear that Lord Stark meant to dispense his justice solely upon Jon and keep his heir blameless.  _He'd keep it secret. He has to. If anyone should find out about Robb, it would greatly damage House Stark, especially now that the king is visiting Winterfell_. In the meantime Jon was to stay in the castle and avoid all contact with his brother. "Try to run away," his lord father had said, "and your only justice would be death."

Nevertheless, no one could have stopped Jon from looking at his brother for the last time. Robb had saddled his palfrey and then helped Bran to tighten the girth on his pony to a snug fit. He had changed his mud-drenched clothes and was wearing thick woollen breeches and a grey leather tunic, and his heavy cloak was wrapped around his shoulders. Snowflakes shimmered on his auburn curls under the pale dawn light, and he had not brushed them away. As he helped Bran up his pony, Greyjoy passed behind him, bent over and whispered in his ear. Robb had not brushed him away either. Grey Wind wandered around the horses, letting out low howls, to the sound of which Ghost rose on his paws from behind Jon's bed. Then his brother mounted his brown horse and spurred him forward after Lord Stark. Greyjoy followed suit, aligning himself left of Robb. Bran tailed them, small and obliviously happy, the sound of his laughter resounding throughout the courtyard.

Robb had not looked up.

"I wish we could both go with them," Arya said wistfully. "Maybe next time we will, don't you think? I'm older than Bran and I can ride better than him. And why should stupid Greyjoy get to go when you stay here?"  _Why should Greyjoy, indeed_ , Jon thought as he irritably played with his fork.  _What game have you been playing, Robb? Just what have you done?_

Lord Stark's second question was, "Was it the first time?"

"No," Jon had simply said. That was when he realised that it had been no accident. There was no reason for his father to patrol the godswood with Greyjoy of all men at this late hour of night. If Lord Stark had suspected anything unseemly between his two eldest sons, he would not have involved his ward in this muddle. It had to be the Greyjoy who came to their lord father with this information. It was evident he had known about it beforehand. He had known exactly how it would look like. "Not the first time, Father," Jon had said, and with a shudder he understood that Robb had been playing his own private game with Greyjoy.  _What have you told him, Robb? And what have you let him do to you? What did that whoreson whisper in your ear?_

"Greyjoy is Father's ward," Jon said blankly. "It's his responsibility to prepare him for leadership, just like he does with Robb. Me, I'm… Well," he shrugged.

"You could get a holding in the Gift," Arya said. "Keep it safe from wildlings. You'd not be just a boring old Lord. You'd be a true warrior! It'd be a real adventure, wouldn't it?"

Jon shrugged again. There was a time when he too was ready to believe that his father intended to send him to the rugged northern heights, to rule in his name upon the scattered tribes of the Gift. Jon was older and smarter now. If anything, his father had meant to hide him in Highgarden.  _And that plan hasn't worked out so well, has it, considering the news of Margaery Tyrell's betrothal to Renly Baratheon_. Any hope Jon had for his future in the north was derived from his firm hold of Robb, and he had all but lost that. He would be lucky to not lose his head.

"I could join you," Arya said and took a very unladylike bite from the bread, trying to chew and speak at the same time. "I can shoot arrows already. You'd teach me how to fight with a sword. And  _I_  won't be exchanged for a stupid blue rose, you can bet on that. If some wildling tries to take me, I'd swish and slash like the best of them!" She hacked at the air with the bread loaf and her lady mother gave her a seething look.

"Arya," Lady Stark said. "Food is to be eaten, not played with."

Arya scowled but lowered her arm. "We could do it, right, Jon? Robb and stupid Greyjoy aren't the only ones. We could rule better."

His sweet sister could delude herself all she wanted, but he was old enough to know that fantasies, pleasing as they were, did not change a thing. He too had his fantasies: about Robb and him ruling Winterfell together; about laying his head on Robb's belly and kissing his soft skin under their furs as the winter storms raged outside; about stealing Robb like one of Arya's wildlings and escaping their father to Dorne or to Lys. _Complete madness._   _You're a girl and I'm a bastard, and we won't get a thing unless we fight our way to seize it._  

"Who knows," Jon said and looked up in time to catch Lady Stark's glare. "Mayhaps we could." He let his fork down on the table, pushed his seat back and left his little sister there, with her stiff grey dress, her sword of a bread loaf and her silly, sad dreams.

 

Jon could find no release.

His back hurt. He had helped Poole hang a wrought-iron chandelier in the Great Hall that afternoon and had been rewarded with stiff muscles and a pouch of Arbor gold he was hiding under his cloak. Now he rested his cheek on his palm and slowly stirred his soup, watching the beetroot and cabbage cubes whirling back and forth inside the thick brew. He tried hard not to think of anything except the vegetables, the soup, the emptiness and how the castle had too much air now that his brother wasn't here, and the anger, that blinding anger, and how he was going to corner gullible, obtuse Robb and make him pay.

Lord Stark's third question was, "Have you touched any of my other children?"

That question had caught Jon by surprise. "No, Father," he said quietly, his face pale and tense. "No, just Robb. No one else."

His father's face was unreadable. Jon used to imagine that when angered, his father wore the Lord mask over his kind face. Now it seemed to him that Father had been the mask all along. It crumbled at the edges to reveal Lord Stark, who had taken a stranger into his home, this bastard boy with  _a dangerous and well-kept secret_ , and had been rewarded with his trueborn son forced down in the godswood.  _A creature of lust and betrayal, and now everyone can see it._

Jon had not given up hope yet, but it was getting harder to know just what to do. It would be of no use to wait for his lord father's decision. It was always better to have an alternate plan, but what? What could he do? If he tried to run away he would be hunted down. And what had Robb told them? Just how far was Robb willing to go if and when push came to shove?  _Sweet Robb, we were both born in winter, but you're a summer child._ Robb liked his pleasure; he liked to please and to be loved. He enjoyed stretching out on Jon's bed with a wine pouch in his hand, his fingers loosely curled around his cock and a carefree grin on his face, sure of himself and of his place in the world. He had sworn he could take everything Jon would put him through, but what would he do now, when he faced disgrace and contempt, when the time had come to choose between Jon and his family?

Jon dropped the spoon back to the plate.  _Why even play this mummer's farce? I cannot eat anymore. I cannot sleep anymore. I cannot even spend myself anymore._  He needed a release and he needed it badly. He wanted to go back to his bedchamber, evoke the image of Robb screwing his eyes shut as he dropped to his knees and took Jon's cock into his mouth, of Robb spending himself with a gurgle as Jon's fingers tightened around his neck. The memories served to stir him, but somehow he already knew it would not be enough. He needed his sweet brother in the flesh to finally find his outlet, needed to see his lashes fluttering over his flushed cheeks, to see his blue eyes darkening as he let himself drown in his desires, to hear him moan and beg and lose coherency as Jon roughly thrust inside of him.  _Gods, Robb, will I ever touch you again?_  With a heavy sigh he rose to leave. Arya was too busy sneaking roasted meat to Nymeria to notice his abrupt parting, but his other half-sister looked up at him as he turned away from the table.

"Are you leaving, Jon?" Sansa asked.

He nodded.

"So am I," she said. "Walk with me, then." He gave her a puzzled look, and then followed her out of the Great Hall, too surprised to say anything else. Sansa had never paid him much attention, and had certainly never asked him to walk her out of the hall. Perhaps she missed Robb's attention ( _or Greyjoy's_ ). Perhaps she, just like anyone else in the castle, knew more than she was letting on.

They walked silently through the inner courtyard towards the Keep. Sansa pulled on the edges of her blue dress to avoid dirtying the soft wool with mud. Their direwolves followed them, Lady sniffing curiously at Ghost's behind.

"I wanted to ask you," she started. "Well, actually, Jeyne wanted to ask you -"

 _Jeyne Poole, Sansa's little friend_. Only two weeks ago Robb had japed to him about how he was going to bed her. "She'd give me her maidenhood, even Theon says so," he cockily said. "Supposing she's a maiden at all." Well, the cheeky little lordling found himself bedded soon enough, to be sure, tied to the headboard of his bed with Jon on top of him. He smiled afterwards, sweat-drenched and completely wrecked, without a thought of any Poole inside his sweet head.

"Aye?" Jon said as his half-sister's voice faltered.

"Well," the colour rose in her cheeks. "The thing is, well – Robb tells you everything, right? So she wanted to know – well –" by now Jon had a pretty good idea as to what Sansa was struggling to say, but some part of him enjoyed her discomfort too much to let her know. He cocked his eyebrow at her, allowing her to keep stumbling upon her words. "Well, say, does he ever talk about her? Robb, I mean?"

"Does Robb talk about Jeyne?" he repeated.

"Yeah, I mean, well – does he?"

Under the pale moonlight and the faint torchlight from the inner wall, the shadows slowly danced on his half-sister's auburn hair and her light blue eyes. Suddenly, she looked very much like her brother, that day a lifetime ago when Jon had cornered him in his bedchamber and had steadied him against the window. Was Robb that innocent then, that easy to embarrass? It was hard to recall. He had whimpered softly. His cheeks had been flushed and his eyes blazing hot like his sister's. Jon couldn't help but wonder how she would have looked like if he had decided to corner her instead. Sansa was only two years younger than them, yet she seemed a child, stuttering about her enamoured friend when their sweet brother let Jon have him in any way and in any place Jon had ordered him to. Sansa shared none of the corruption and debauchery in which they had so eagerly immersed themselves.

"Sorry, Sansa," Jon said. "I don't think he ever talked much about her."

"Oh," she seemed taken aback. She and her little friend must have composed a complete gallant song about Robb kissing Jeyne by the weirwood. _Mayhaps it could have happened_ , Jon thought,  _but I got to him first. He would never think of kissing her. He would think of fucking her to make me fuck him harder._

Ghost and Lady were now circling one another, each of them trying to bite on the other's tail. Jon and Sansa reached the entrance to the Keep, and feeling a bit smug, Jon ordered his direwolf, "to me, Ghost, roll over!" The snowy white pup dashed towards his master, dropped to the ground before his legs and rolled onto his back.

"How wonderful, Jon!" Sansa cried out, her eyes wide and awed. Just like her brother looked when he had him on his back, legs spread apart and their brows pressed close together. "How did you make him do that?"

"I trained him myself," Jon boasted. "It's really easy. I could show you how to do it," he suggested when he saw the gleam in her eyes.  _So much like him_.  _Robb, will I ever touch you again?_  "But we'll need something Lady likes to eat."

"I've got some lemon cakes in my chamber," Sansa said. "Would that work?"

"Yes," Jon nodded. "I think it would."

Jon had only been inside Sansa's bedchamber a few times, and he had never stayed there for very long. Her room was tidy and warm. The fire was cackling merrily in the hearth. A few colourfully quilted blankets rested on her bed next to the thick grey furs and the few old ragdolls.  _Probably quilted them herself_ , Jon thought. Lady Stark also used to quilt by the hearth of the solar in the evenings, while their lord father had gathered his children around for a tale of the ancient wars. Robb liked best the brave adventures of the boy king, the Young Dragon, and he would stare at his father, bright eyed and engrossed in the tales; his head would sometimes rest on Jon's shoulder. Later he would sneak inside Jon's bedchamber and climb into his bed. He would crawl under the furs and smile at his brother.  _I'm cold, Jon._ And Jon would allow his lordling of a brother, his gullible and obtuse lordling of a brother to lie close by his side. Robb would talk of knights and Valyrian swords and Jon would devour the sound of his voice. He had loved him even then, with all the force of his little heart. As they grew older, not once he had woken up with his furs wet and his brother sleeping soundly next to him, having slipped into his bed during the night. Jon did not yet know what to do with all those unsettling emotions, but he remembered pining to touch Robb, and wondering how come his brother, as always, had it so easy. All of this had ended a long time ago, the family evenings in the solar, the wonderful tales and Robb's innocent little smile, but the pang of regret was as fresh as the nightly snow in the courtyard.

Sansa brought a few lemon cakes from the nightstand, and Jon showed her how to train Lady to sit and roll. "Sit, Lady!" Sansa commanded, keeping her tone firm just like Jon had taught her to _._ Lady whined, sniffing at the cake, and then she sat down. Sansa let out a delighted laugh and handed her direwolf a generous slice.

"It's really easy," Sansa beamed at him. "Thank you, Jon."

"No trouble at all," Jon said. "Want some wine?" he gestured at the wine pouch under his cloak. "It's Arbor gold."

"Do you always carry wine on you?" Sansa's lips curled up to a smile.  _The same smile. Did they always have the same smile, or do I just make it up because I miss him so?_

Jon smiled back. "Poole gave me some after I've helped him with the new chandelier. I had to hide it from – well -"

"Mother," Sansa nodded sagely. "I know." She seemed to hesitate. She was old enough to drink wine at the high table, but she did not show as much fondness for the beverage as her older brother did.  _Robb likes his pleasure, his wine, his games_. "Sure, why not?" She finally decided. She settled on the bed and Jon sat next to her. The two pups lay by their feet. Jon uncorked the pouch and handed it to his half-sister, who took a swig and swallowed with a grimace. For a while they sat in a cosy silence, sipping from the golden wine and listening the cackling of the fire and the wind blowing outside. Sansa looked at the hearth, and Jon traced Robb's lines in her face. The same high cheekbones, the same curve of the mouth, the same straight nose. Their lips were rosy and full, their eyes blue and bright.  _I'd do anything just to hold your hand if it would allow me to extract Robb out of you,_ he thought.

"Jon?" she said. Her voice was drowsy.

"Aye?"

"Have you ever, you know –" the wine made her brave, just like it made her brother shameless, "kissed someone?"

"Yes," he swallowed his chuckle into a smile. "Yes, I have."

"What – what is it like?"

 _What is it like_. He could not tell her what it was like. He  _could_  tell her what it was like with her brother, with his lips slightly parted and his eyes shut tight and his long lashes casting shadows on his flushed cheeks. And his tongue, so yielding to Jon's. And his pained and soft moans when Jon bit him. And the way he would sometimes suck on Jon's lips as if he was afraid to let go.

"It's good," he said. "It's real nice. Have you never?"

She shook her head. "I wanted to, when Ser Patrek was here," she confessed, "but Mother was always watching me. And after the Mallisters have all left… well, there's no one else I can kiss."

True, his half-sister did not share their incestuous depravity. Her only semi-viable option in the castle was Greyjoy, and Jon could not blame her for not being interested ( _Or perhaps she is, perhaps Robb is, perhaps their noble Tully heart is not as pure as it seems_.) She could of course practise with one of Mikken's boys, but Jon suspected she would rather kiss Hodor first.

"I've heard the Southron ladies practise with each other," Jon said. Sansa shot him a scandalised look. "It's just what I've heard," he raised his hands in defence.

"I've heard that too," she whispered back after a while and another sip or two from the wine flask. "Theon told us that. He said that's what they do in Highgarden, to come – prepared –"

"You could practise with Jeyne," Jon said.

Sansa blushed and lowered her eyes. "That's probably not a very good idea," she mumbled and then looked at him.

Could this be what she wanted of him? She didn't want to, or was too afraid to ask Greyjoy, she was not depraved enough to ask Robb, not bold enough to ask Jeyne or Beth, and too haughty to corner one of the servant boys. Jon was her best chance – not really family, highborn-raised at least, without a mocking grin on his face. Would kissing one Tully be like kissing the other?  _And wouldn't you just love it, Robb? You can play your games with Greyjoy, and I can play mine with our sweet sister_. It would have been so easy; all he had to do was say the words and she would let him. This was not what he wanted, though, not what he truly wanted.  _Who would you pick, Sansa or Theon?_  Robb had once asked him, echoing Jon's own tormenting question, and Jon still had but one reply:  _only you, sweet Robb, no one but you._

She looked at him silently, took another sip from her wine, and then lowered her head to the pillows. With a nimble movement she freed her hair from its ties and pins. The soft auburn curls spread around her like waves, and Jon swallowed the curve of her lips, the angle of her chin, the hollow of her neck. Two years younger than them, and still a child, head full of kisses and knightly tales.  _But so much, so much like him_. He felt the hollow pain inside of him grow, the emptiness of the vast, soundless void in which he was trapped when Robb was not around.

"Sansa," he whispered, but she was already asleep.

Slowly, Jon bent towards her. He gathered her long curls in his hand, and gently tucked them underneath her head and neck. She stirred in her sleep and sighed. He waited until her breath was even again, and then he covered her with one of her quilts up to her neck. What few signs of femininity his half-sister had already possessed were now hidden underneath the blankets. She sighed again and rolled over, her back to him. Now he could almost delude himself.

 _I shouldn't do that_ , he thought.  _What if she wakes up, what if she sees me, what if she knows? It's dirty and it's wrong, but she's so much like him, and mayhaps I'll never see him again._

His eyes fixed on Sansa, drinking the line of her nape and carving her brother out of her hidden face, Jon slowly withdrew from the bed. The auburn hair, the long lashes, the straight nose, the pale, pale skin with the flushed, flushed cheeks…  _Is it my vengeance or my prayer to Robb? I don't know anymore_. He took a hesitant step, then another, back towards the door, unable to tear himself away. Robb had lain this way on his bed when he was young, auburn curls spilling on the pillow, lashes fluttering slowly to his happy dreams. He was pure and innocent before Jon had claimed him, with his pretty head full of songs. His oath, too, was out of a gallant tale, but Jon had believed him, he had. His fingers clutched the door handle.  _I had him once, I will have him again_ , he thought dazedly as the faint lines of his sister's neck blurred into his brother's.  _Dreams are pointless; I will get nothing unless I seize it. We will run away, a complete madness, but we will. A house by the sea, I will rest my head on him, we will watch the sunset and together dream of home…_

Sansa stirred again, and with a desperate sound, as close as he had ever gotten to sobbing, Jon turned on his heels and fled the room; the wine flask, half-full, still slung on his arm.  _I have not touched any of your other children, Father. I have not. It was always Robb. No one else._ And it was then clear to him what he must do. He would never concede defeat, and if things had to get ugly, they would get ugly on his terms. As for Robb, it was time to find out how honest his gallant oaths were. The moment of truth had finally arrived, and it remained to be seen what the little lordling would do, and if he could truly take everything Jon planned to put him through.

And the seventh day passed over Winterfell.


	3. Touch of Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb closed his eyes in resignation. He did not rightly believe that the turncloak planned on doing anything unseemly to him. _I'd fuck you if I wanted to_ , he liked to say, and he had never wanted to. Theon's true pleasure was fucking with his mind instead.
> 
> Chapter 3, in which Theon takes good care of Robb.

His lord father would never love him again.

Robb was no longer sure if he had ever loved him at all. He slumped back against the old oak by the southern edge of the camp, and Grey Wind followed him with a soft whine. The nights were growing colder as they travelled north of Winterfell. The harsh wind flapped through the nearest row of tents, and the chill burrowed into his bones as fiercely as the loneliness he felt, even when surrounded by so many men. Robb wrapped his cloak closer about him, stretched his sore legs and laid his cheek on his palm as he watched his lord father from afar. Most of the men had already dispersed around the campsite, some drinking and singing loudly, others honing their swords and trading ludicrous hunting tales. Lord Eddard still sat next to Bran, patiently answering the child's endless questions. The light was too dim to see clearly, but Robb could imagine the look of affection his lord father gave his little brother. He would never give Robb such a look again. _If he ever has at all._

Try as hard as he might, Robb could not remember. Surely his lord father had looked at him like that once. Surely he had answered Robb's questions and messed Robb's hair with his big, calloused hand. Surely. It had just been so long, and Robb had been more of an heir to teach than a son to love _. And now I am more of a disgrace than anything else_.

He rode next to his lord father during the day, as was expected of him as the eldest son. _We are Northmen, we are men of tradition,_ he thought bitterly as he sent his hand to scratch behind Grey Wind's ear. _And I have broken about every tradition there is._ What he had done (what he had been caught doing) was punishable by death, but his lord father had not yet told him what would be his sentence. In fact, he had spoken very few words to him. Sometimes, while they rode side by side, Robb could feel Lord Eddard's eyes on him like an icy basinful of water. He would look up from his saddle to meet a silent stare which sent chills down his spine. He would still himself, face away and worry on his bottom lip until it bloodied, just so his eyes would not well with shameful tears. _I will not cry,_ he had promised himself. _I am the wolf of Stark, I will accept my punishment. It is better that you have a degenerate son, Father, than a craven one._

"Cheerful as ever, I see," Theon said and sat next to him. It was hard to tell which was worse, his lord father's cold eyes or Theon's constant mirth. _Father refusing to go near me, or Theon never ceasing to_. The turncloak leant against the withered oak with a contented sigh; he seemed smugger than usual. The cold wind blew through his fine dark hair and his blue eyes gleamed in his lean, handsome face by the faint light of the bonfire. Robb took a sip from his wine pouch and felt Theon's arm sneaking its way up his back.

In the first few days of the journey he had pushed Theon's hand away each time the turncloak had attempted to pull him back into their old games. Robb had tried to avoid him as much as was possible in such a small camp. He would quickly leave whenever Theon had cornered him alone, which he often and mercilessly had. As the numbing sense of desolation settled deeper in him, Robb had lost the energy to shove Theon away, much as he had lost the will to ask him why. _Did you want Jon dead? Have I ever wronged you? You said you were my brother._

The arm wrapped around his back angered him, but he had to think carefully about his response. He had to lay low. It would not be wise to react violently, Robb decided. Considering his delicate situation, it was best to go unnoticed, at least until his lord father decided his fate. He could not even say his farewell to Jon. He had dared not ask to see his brother the morning they had left Winterfell. As he had helped Bran saddle his pony, Theon had slipped behind him, bent over and softly whispered in his ear. "Your bastard brother is at the window, looking at you. It's almost heartbreaking. Look back, Robb, come on," he had urged him, his voice low and malicious. "Your father is watching too, lad. Go on, look back. Show your father where your heart lies. Make Snow's miserable life even shorter." Robb had not looked up. _Forgive me, Jon_ , he had silently prayed, but he had not looked up.

He twitched and edged to the right of the tree, wordlessly releasing himself from the malevolent hold of Theon's arm.

"Still mad?" Theon asked, as if surprised. He scooted after Robb around the withered trunk of the old oak, and his arm once again wound around him. His fingers lightly tapped on Robb's shoulder. "You're very dull when you're angry," he said. The tip of his finger found its way under the fur line of Robb's cloak, and he gently patted his neck.

Robb did not answer. He let his hand lace through his direwolf's shaggy mane, and looked at his little brother by the campfire. He knew he should not feel so bitter; this mess had nothing to do with Bran. The child had been so excited to finally join the adults on their journey north, and Robb had tried hard to play the part for his little brother's sake. It was, however, getting nearly impossible to pretend to be the young lord when all he wanted to do was crawl back under the furs in his tent, send his hand under his breeches and think of Jon, of his grey eyes and dark wild curls, of the smell of wet earth in the godswood and his brother's rough hands on him. _When he's no longer here, every day and every night are going to be like that. I will wank myself to tears and dream of him gone._ Theon's finger was now under his woollen tunic, tracing the line of his collarbone.

"Hold still," Theon said quietly. "Your father is looking at you. Let's not get him suspicious, shall we? There's so much more he still doesn't know about you and Snow."

It sounded like a threat, but Robb doubted there was anything more shameful than what his lord father had seen. He had not just caught them kissing or lying unclothed in bed. No, he had seen his firstborn taken violently by his bastard. He understood that Robb got off on that brutality, that Robb always liked it afterwards, that it was a game. What could Theon possibly say to make it worse? Yet it was still wiser not to tempt fate, not when their lives were at stake. Robb watched as Bran got up on his feet and ran towards Jory, who was sharpening the arrows in his quiver while fashioning a fanciful tale to Harwin's doubtful amusement. Lord Eddard's eyes were now on Robb. He gave his son a long hard glare which made Robb bury his digits deeper into Grey Wind's thick fur. He did not dare to push Theon away while his lord father was watching. _Father would surely take his word over mine_.

"There's a good lad," the turncloak said, and another finger found its way under his collar. "I did you a favour, you know. Sooner or later, you would have been caught. What if it were one of the little whelps to catch you, or your dear mother? Fancy that," he snorted. "Lady Stark seeing you fucked by the bastard. Your father was a good laugh, but I wish I could have seen _her_ face. Not even the old gods could have helped you then."

Theon was at his most infuriating when he had a point. They were getting too cocky, too arrogant to comprehend the danger. Robb and Jon had constructed their own private world where Jon made the rules and Robb followed blindly. The world outside had ceased to exist; nothing had really mattered but the madness he could not have waited to spill in Theon's arms. As much as it was terrible to think of his lady mother watching him with the same horror he had found in his lord father's eyes, Robb knew it would have been even worse if it were one of the servants. Within the hour, the entire castle would have known of the young lord's debauchery. Their fate would have been sealed, to the Wall or to the gallows. _Not that there is any guarantee we would come out of this alive._ Robb doubted his lord father meant to execute him or even send him to take the black, not now that the king was visiting Winterfell. It would raise too many uncomfortable questions. But as for Jon… _Will I ever even see him again?_

"I saved you. You should thank me, truly," Theon concluded. His fingers rubbed circles on Robb's neck. Lord Eddard moved his eyes away, drew a whetstone, and slowly began to sharpen the rippling Valyrian steel of his greatsword. _Ice._ As a child Robb used to lull himself to sleep dreaming of the day he would wield the ancestral sword of House Stark _._ How low he had fallen to look at it now and think of his own execution. _At least if he takes off our heads, it would be quick. Better that swift end than these two weeks of uncertainty and torture I must waddle through._

"Fine, keep ignoring me," Theon said and pulled him closer. Robb could feel the pulsing heat of the turncloak's skin, his soft breath, the soothing touch of his hand. "Be dull. We'll both be bored when we could've been having fun."

Robb took another sip from his wine pouch, but didn't answer.

"I'll come into your tent tonight," Theon whispered in his ear.

Robb shuddered and closed his eyes. "Seven hells you will," he quietly replied.

"Give me hell," Theon sneered. "We'd both like that, wouldn't we?" Robb shut his eyes tighter and Theon let another finger join the others and trail under his collarbone. "I know exactly what you crave, lad. I know every dirty little thing you've done, you've told me all. I saw you in the godswood, Snow was on you like an animal." _I should punch him,_ Robb thought. _I should do something, anything, but Father would see me. What would he think?_ "You loved it when the bastard took you hard, I saw your face. You like it rough, Robb. I'll give it to you rough. I can teach you things the bastard will never get to learn."

His mouth was painfully close, drawing the words slowly in Robb's ear. _I got myself into this fucking mess,_ Robb thought dazedly _, and now I have no one to help me out_. He was on his own at Theon's mercy. No one else could feel how soft his touch was, how poisonous his words were and how readily and shamefully Robb reacted to them.

"Here's the funny bit," the traitor whispered. "You want to kill me, but more than that, you want me to fuck you."

"Is it a game to you, Greyjoy?" Robb hissed through gritted teeth.

"Everything is a game," Theon replied, smiling. "You just haven't listened when I told you the rules." His breath was hot on Robb's skin, his fingers running lower. "Don't worry," he added cheerfully. "I'll take care of you once the bastard is gone." He messed his hair, as affectionately as Robb would do to his younger siblings. "I'll take good care of you, Robb."

 

Lord Eddard had never neglected his duties, not even during the journey. While most of his men had already withdrawn to their bedrolls, he was still seated at his makeshift work desk. Robb watched him as he scratched his dark beard, dipped his quill in the inkstand and after a thought began to scribe his letters in firm, sure strokes. A fearsome storm had started brewing outside. The wax candles on the desk flickered violently, casting deep shades over the ground. The flaps of the tent swayed back and forth to the fury of the northern gale.

"Father," Robb said.

 _I am the wolf of Stark_ , he reminded himself, but even his own direwolf looked quite pitiful right now, prowling in nervous circles around his legs and growling at the fleeting shadows. Robb had puffed himself with bravery on his way to his lord father's tent, promising himself that he could find the right words. _I have to know_ , he convinced himself. He could not carry on in this uncertainty, and he definitely could not let Theon bully him. Wolves were not lambs to peacefully await the butcher's cleaver. He stood silently while his father wrote his letters, and felt his bravado slowly dissipating along with the false promises of forgiveness fuelled by the wine pouch he had emptied earlier.

The only answer he had was the heavy raindrops on the roof of the tent and the distant sound of thunder, along with the harsh screech of the quill over the parchment roll. His palms curled to fists, and he hid them behind his cloak.

"Father," he repeated. "Hear me please."

It took a while longer, and Robb was pulling nervously on the hem of his tunic, rubbing his fists on the small of his back. Then his lord father laid the quill down, closed the inkwell, blew on the parchment and rolled it neatly, putting it aside. He raised his head and looked at Robb.

"What is it?" he said. It was almost as if he was talking to a stranger. _Almost, but not quite_. Lord Eddard would be courteous to a stranger. He would not look at a stranger as if he were a piece of filth.

Robb swallowed. His face was ashen, his limbs numb with fear. _I can do it. He has to understand_. "Father," he began, trying to keep his voice for quivering. "I apologise, I have done an awful thing, I know." Grey Wind whined and circled him again. "I put myself before your judgement. I would know my punishment, I beg of you, my lord," and his voice did waver. _Fuck it_. "I am so sorry, Father," he added earnestly, his eyes appallingly moist. "I know I have shamed you greatly."

His lord father's voice did not falter in the slightest, nor did his cold stare change. "You have not only shamed me," he curtly said. "You have shamed our house. Most of all, you have shamed yourself."

"I have," Robb said meekly. "And I wish I could take it all back. I truly do." _Is that even true, or is it another lie? If Jon were here, would I not do it again?_

"It is too late," his father said, and then his voice softened. "What madness possessed you, Robb?"

Robb could tell his lord father many things. He could tell him of the feverish boy cornered in his bedchamber by his half-brother, of how Jon trapped him, secluded him and broke him to pieces. Blaming Jon might save him some of his father's love, but it would strip him of the last of his dignity. Because there was no denying that Robb had wanted that. Jon had wrecked him and spun him around his little finger, but Robb had wanted that. He had always liked it afterwards. "It's all just gone so wrong," he mumbled and looked up at his father, desperately seeking a shred of compassion in his hard gaze. "I would know my sentence, Father. I beg of you."

His lord father did not answer right away, and when he did, his words were few and measured. "Know this, then," he said. "You are my son and always will be. But if the king were not coming, if Bran were older, I'd have you sent to the Wall."

It was much as Robb had expected, but the words still cut into his flesh. He concentrated on the sound of the rain and wind outside to keep himself from biting his lip, from crying. His lord father did not mean to execute him, then, nor would he have him take the black. And he would never love him for as long as they both shall live. "I understand," he said quietly. His nails dug into his palms. "And my lady mother?"

"I see no reason to upset her," Lord Eddard said. "As long as it never happens again."

At least his mother was not yet lost to him. One day she would forgive him, _she must_ , and then it would be like before. He would lay his head on her shoulder and she would stroke his curls gently, the way she had when he was a child, a touch of warmth in the desolation which awaited him in Winterfell. There was only one question remaining, the one he had been dreading to ask. Absently he felt for his wine pouch and recalled he had left it in his tent. He breathed deeply and braved on. "And Jon?"

The lines on his lord father's face hardened. "He will receive his sentence, doubt it not," he said.

"Father, I beg you," Robb said quietly. "Do not hurt him."

"This would wait until after the royal visit," Lord Eddard said. He laid a blank parchment on the desk and took his quill, bluntly hinting to his son that the hearing was over. Robb found himself unable to move. He could not just go without an answer, he could not. He had to make him understand, had to show his father that he was still worthy of love. He had to find that look of affection his father had given Bran and would never give him again, if he ever had at all.

"Father, please," he said, his voice shaking. "I know it is appalling, what I've done, but we've never meant to… I've never meant to… It was just…" his words deserted him. _It was just what? An incestuous urge? I lusted after my brother and he took advantage of it?_ "You were young too, Father," Robb begged. "You have also known love –"

Lord Eddard pounded his fist on the desk. "Not with my brother!"

Robb felt his face harden too in anger. _What's the point?_ Even if he could articulate his feelings, which ( _true to his name_ ) he obviously could not, his father would not listen. _He would never love me_. "Oh, is he?" he pointedly said and looked his father in the eye.

The silence was so thick Robb could feel it rising up his throat like bile. A flash of lightning showered sudden light over the tent and the glowering grey of his father's eyes. Deflated, a child again, Robb counted silently. _One, two_. It was all he could do to stand his ground and not run away. _Three, four, five_. Grey Wind slunk behind him, tail between his legs. _Six, Seven_. The thunder rolled.

"This discussion is over," his lord father said.

"Father –" Robb started. _Don't hate me._

"Go," Lord Eddard ordered. "Before I regret my decision." He dipped the quill in the ink and his eyes were on the desk.

Robb stood for a moment longer in front of his father, desperately wishing he would say something more. _Anything. Yell at me, strike me, tell me you've never wanted me at all_. His lord father no longer even acknowledged his presence.

"Yes, my lord," he finally said and stepped into the storm outside.

 

Jon came to him under the cover of darkness. He slipped under the furs, the heat of his skin a shield against the crisp cold inside the tent. He cradled Robb into his warm embrace, rocking him gently, humming into his nape the way he always had soothed him when he had taken him in the pitch dark of the night, like he was about to do now. His lips left kisses up his neck to his ear. He suckled on his earlobe, so softly. _Too softly_. His touch was playful, devoid of the usual raw need of Jon's hands and the greediness of his mouth. _It is wrong, so terribly wrong_. Robb moaned and felt himself harden as he pressed back against him. He buried his face in the curve of a stranger's arm and then woke with a start.

At first he was not entirely sure where he was. It was as dark as the bottom of a well and the air was still and icy cold. Little Bran stirred next to him inside his bedroll under the thick furs they shared. Robb's heart was thumping madly in his chest. The blizzard still raged outside, the heavy rain tapping on the roof of the tent. _The tent, aye, the journey north, and my lord father, he would never love me, I'll always be his son but he has never loved me, and Jon, and Jon, will I ever see him again?_ It all came rushing back, but the hands, the lips on his neck, it was not a dream. The warmth of another body pressed closer behind him.

The turncloak was true to his words.

"Go away," Robb struggled, panicked. "I don't want you here."

Theon's arms wrapped tighter around him, pinning him in place. "I've seen you when you truly don't want something," he nibbled slowly at his ear. "I don't believe you."

"Bran will wake up," Robb murmured.

Theon only chuckled. "Then keep quiet."

"Please, Theon," Robb was reduced to begging. "He'll hear you, please just go." _He knows he has me under his thumb_. Robb could not fight him without waking Bran, and his little brother might tell of it to their lord father. Why should Lord Eddard believe that Theon sneaked under Robb's furs, after what he had seen in the godswood? He already knew his son was the monster, not his ward.

Theon rose to his elbow, reached across Robb and laid his hand over Bran's chest. "Hey, boy," he said and shook him gently. "Bran, are you awake? Bran?" The child stirred and let out a soft snore, then rolled the other way, his back to them and his head almost entirely hidden under the thick furs. "See?" Theon said and fell back against Robb's back. "You worry too much. The little whelp is in dreamland."

Robb closed his eyes in resignation. He did not rightly believe that the turncloak planned on doing anything unseemly to him. _I'd fuck you if I wanted to_ , he liked to say, and he had never wanted to. Theon's true pleasure was fucking with his mind instead. _Let him do that. I can just lie here and think of Jon._

"Yeah, you do that," Theon whispered as he kept scattering kisses just above the collar of Robb's loose woollen tunic. "Close your eyes. Pretend I'm not here. Pretend it's the bastard. Pretend all you want." His lips closed on Robb's left shoulder and he latched on it, his teeth tracing deep red lines through the pale skin. Robb writhed between his arms. "I saw you going to your father's tent earlier. Did he tell you that the bastard is going to die?" _Not in so many words, no._ "You're desperate, aren't you, Robb?" Theon softly asked. "He hates the mere sight of you. You disgust him. But you don't –" his tongue followed his teeth, soothing the pain. "You don't disgust me. I mean to protect you, Robb, I told you I would. You're my little brother, my only brother, and I know exactly what you need. You want someone to hold you, to tell you everything will be okay. You'd take that from anyone, even from me. Isn't that so, Robb?"

"Nothing will ever be okay," Robb said quietly. "You made sure of that. Dare you still call yourself my brother?"

"Hush, lad," Theon said. His left hand trailed on Robb's waist, stopped at his hips. "I wager you're hard already."

"I'm done playing with you."

"Seems to me," Theon bit again on his neck, hard enough that he had to suppress a moan, and then the traitor's hand was on the front of Robb's breeches, "that you are."

"Let go," Robb stuttered. "Don't touch me."

Theon withdrew his hand and laid it on his stomach instead. "Fine," he said. "I won't force you, as much as you'd enjoy that." He moved his lips down the line of his jaw, kissing and nuzzling slowly until he had almost touched Robb's lips. Lightning suddenly illuminated the dark corners of the tent, the furs and the auburn locks of his little brother sleeping next to him, while the turncloak kissed the side of his lips and bit on his chin. Startled by the ghastly light, Robb found himself moving against Theon. He could almost feel the hot smirk on the traitor's mouth.

"You like that, don't you?" Theon whispered. "I told you I'd take good care of you."

"Please, Theon," Robb said, unsure what he was begging for anymore. "I don't want – let go." And he gasped into Theon's arm underneath him as the turncloak licked and laved at his chin and down his neck. "Only Jon – please. Just Jon."

"You truly love that little shit," Theon mumbled. "You'd do anything for him." Robb slowly nodded underneath him. _Anything_.

"Well, I'm not the jealous type," Theon whispered into the hollow of his neck. "You can pretend it's him. I can call you a whore, like he does, if it pleases you. Look at you, little Lord Robb. You're so hungry for love that you're letting me touch you after I've put your bastard brother to death."

This snapped Robb halfway back to his senses. "Go now," he hissed, "or by the gods I'll kill you."

"I'll go if you want," Theon's mouth was back at his ear. "He doesn't have to die, though. Not if you do what I say."

"What – what do you mean?" Robb murmured.

"I'll touch you now," Theon said and slowly lowered his hand back from Robb's belly to cup his erection. Robb flinched and breathed heavily, but the traitor held him firmly in place. "Relax, you'll like it," he said. Robb felt his cock grow harder in the turncloak's hand and cursed himself and his treacherous body.

"Tell me what you mean, Theon," Robb implored. "You said he doesn't have to die –"

"Quiet, lad," Theon said. He squeezed Robb's cock lightly and chuckled into his neck when it readily responded with a slight twitch. "You're going to wake up the whelp." His hand began stroking him through the thick wool of his breeches. "Feels nice?"

"Tell me, I beg you."

"Let me help you, Robb, I'll take care of you," Theon rested his cheek on Robb's, their mouths close, his one arm cradling the young lord while the other was gently touching his length. "Rub against me. Go on."

Theon's fingers deftly unlaced the front ties of his breeches, and in a moment the sudden touch of the cold air in the tent was replaced with warm skin enveloping his hard and swollen erection. The traitor's touch was firm and confident; Robb obeyed and slowly moved his hips into Theon's hand.

"Just like that," Theon encouraged him. "Fuck yourself into my hand."

"Tell me," Robb begged, his voice no higher than a murmur.

"I will, keep moving," Theon kissed the side of his lips again and curled his fingers around his cock. Robb thrust into the circle of his hand, flushed and shivering. _Forgive me, Jon_ , he prayed.

"Your father is the only one who knows," Theon said. His other arm moved down and clutched Robb's hip. His fingers dug into his flesh, using it as a leverage to push him into his warm palm. "He hasn't told anyone yet. Now put your hands on mine."

Robb lowered his hands to wrap around the traitor's palm as Theon handled him back and forth into the tightness of his fingers. "Good, just like that."

"Tell me," Robb panted.

"The king will be in Winterfell soon," Theon said and set a faster pace. Robb wriggled, his face burning and his toes curling upwards. Theon held him snugly against his chest, nails ploughed into his hip, and he was unable to wring himself free. Droplets of sweat covered his brow as he found himself torn between the thick and terrible pleasure, the fear of waking Bran up and a desperate attempt to hang onto each word that came out of Theon's venomous mouth.

"And then?" He groaned, pulling the traitor's hand closer at him as he was pushed forward.

"King Robert likes his hunting," Theon squeezed him hard, thumbing the slit of his cock. "There will be a hunting party." Robb panted, screwed his eyes shut. _Wrong, so terribly wrong_. "Hunting is a dangerous affair, Robb." He tugged harder on his cock, sucked on the jut of his chin.

The pressure was getting too intense. Lightning flashed outside, and a second later the thunder roared and Robb came undone in Theon's arms. "Accidents can always happen," the turncloak said, and Robb spent himself with a choked moan, spilt his seed into Theon's hand and turned back to look at him, breathless, his eyes wide and wild with comprehension.

"Just an accident," said the traitor. "Then you can become the new Lord Stark."


	4. The Big Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Robb," he now whispered the name in his brother's ear. "Robb." Like a prayer. _My summer child_. "Robb." His lips on his hair, his hand on his belly, he breathed into his skin.
> 
> Chapter 4, in which Jon tries to save the day, and Bran wonders if Robb is still the hero.

"Father would have us both killed," Robb murmured.

Perhaps he would, but Jon could not stand it any longer. He slid his arm around Robb's waist and pressed his nose into his brother's soft curls, deeply breathing in his scent.  _It's like finding home again_ , he thought. The prayer to the Father had just begun as he entered the overcrowded sept and slowly made his way to the front of the hall. He had found his brother behind Ser Rodrik, with his head held high and his face expressionless, repeating after the empty words of the service. The crowd was so thick that Jon doubted anyone could see how closely he was standing to Robb; most septgoers were squeezing just as near to one another. Of course, they were probably not letting their hands trail astray like his were under Robb's woollen doublet.

"Father," Jon whispered in his brother's ear, "is not here."

The ceremony was held in gratitude for the safe return of the Lord of Winterfell, but the master of the castle himself did not attend the prayer. Their father, as always, paid his respects to the old gods of the weirwood while the rest of the household visited the sept and subjected themselves to Septon Chayle's pearls of wisdom. Jon took after his father when it came to prayer; the stone sept of Winterfell had always made him feel queasy, as if he had erroneously wandered into Lady Stark's own bedchamber. As it happens, though, he was there today for an entirely different kind of worship. His fingers run on his brother's stomach, stroking the soft wisps of reddish hair down to the ties of his breeches.

"If someone sees this –" Robb warned him, his voice hushed, but he leant into his touch just the same.

"Nobody will see," Jon promised, rubbing his cheek on Robb's hair. "And he'd kill me anyhow."

"Don't ever say that," Robb's eyes narrowed, his chin tensed. "I won't let him."

His voice was hot with conviction, but Jon suspected there was not much Robb could do at this point. Lord Stark had not spoken to Jon since his return earlier that morning, and he felt a hollow knot at the pit of his stomach whenever he looked in his father's eyes.  _He has neither forgotten nor forgiven_. Jon had taken a stroll through the castle grounds the night before, too restive to sleep. The direwolves were as equally agitated as he was. Nymeria and Shaggydog had been howling in the godswood until Lady Stark begged Farlen to do something about the blasted beasts. "They miss their brothers, m'lady," the kennelmaster simply said, and Jon thought of blue eyes, an easy smile and curls tangling in his fingers. Ghost had stood vigilant with Lady at the main gate all night long, his red eyes glowing under the pallid moonlight. At the break of dawn the guards had blown their horns once, and a grey pup rushed to join his white brother. Ghost and Grey Wind danced circles in the outer yard, biting and nuzzling each other tenderly.

Jon and Robb had not been as lucky. The entire castle waited outside to welcome their lord and his sons. Sansa had put on a high-collared woollen gown, but Arya was still in her nightclothes, climbing the parapets to catch the first glimpse of her father. Jon had only needed to take one look at Lord Stark to understand that he was not welcome inside this warm familial tableau. He slunk out of sight, searching for his brother amongst the riders. Robb dismounted after his father, followed closely by Greyjoy. He seemed older somehow, taller, his shoulders broader; he returned less of a child. Bran followed them, hopping excitedly and throwing his arms around Lady Stark. Robb also gave his lady mother a fierce hug, and then embraced his sisters and hoisted little Rickon up on his shoulders until the toddler laughed delightedly.  _Do they know how blessed they are?_  Jon wondered. Greyjoy put his filthy paw on Robb's shoulder and bent to whisper in his ear. His brother's eyes stilled and then locked on Jon, who was standing aside with his back to the wall. Jon could read him like an unsealed scroll. Robb wore the lordling mask snugly, but it was cracked; his pain seeped outside as the tears on the ancient face of the heart tree. Jon would have given the world at that moment to draw Robb into his arms, kiss the hurt away and assure him that he had a plan, that they could sort it all out.

"Robb," he now whispered the name in his brother's ear. "Robb." Like a prayer.  _My summer child_. "Robb." His lips on his hair, his hand on his belly, he breathed into his skin.

"You need to leave," Robb said and propped his head against Jon's shoulder.

"I need –" he mumbled but could not continue. He never had the right words. It came naturally enough for him to mutter filth in his brother's ear, but now he could not find a channel for a softer kind of pain. He sighed, frustrated, but luckily Robb was there to voice his feelings for him, as he always seemed to do.  _It's time we talk_ , he would say when Jon went too far, a gentle restraining hand on his arm. Perhaps that was the great emptiness that he had felt when he had walked down the deserted corridors of Winterfell while his brother had been away. Robb's absence also marked the absence of words.

"I know," his brother softly said. "I've missed you so."

 _Gods, I believe that_. His chest pressed so close to Robb's back he could feel his every heartbeat. _But what game were you playing, Robb? I would forgive you, I cannot do without you, just tell me what it is that you have done._  Jon could not see his father's ward in the sept, but he had no doubt that Greyjoy was lurking somewhere in the back; he could feel his presence seeping in like a noxious disease. Still, it wasn't the time for confrontation. For as long as Septon Chayle preached the glory of the Father, his devotion was for his brother and for his brother alone.

"I'd bend you over and fuck you," he whispered to him. Those words came easily enough; perhaps it was the best he could do. "Here and now." He remembered a time when Robb would whimper distressfully at such speech. Now he only sighed and placed his hand on Jon's.

"There's nothing I want more," he mumbled, his voice low and wishful. "Believe me. It was hard. This journey. I was so –" he deliberated. "Lonely."

"As was I," Jon said. He had also been angry and jealous, along with a confusing swirl of other feelings for which he had no names. Did it really matter now that Robb was back? What was done was done, Jon decided, and they all had made their mistakes, hadn't they? Robb had let Greyjoy under his skin one way or another, and Jon had taken his twisted prayer in Sansa's bedchamber.  _Now we are even. One day we may even be able to talk about this_. In the meantime, it was of the uttermost importance that he would get his brother to listen to his plan. If he could make him agree to it, they should have all the time in the world to clarify exactly what they had done and why.

"We shouldn't give him any reason to – to execute you. Better the Wall, isn't that so?" Robb's voice wavered.  _The Wall is not death, true, but it is the next closest thing_. If Jon went north, he would be lost to Robb as their uncle Benjen, a rare visitor in a cloak of black. "I've asked him, Jon. I've begged him to spare you, but he wouldn't tell me a thing. He cannot even look at me anymore."

 _So Father's golden boy has fallen from grace_. Jon couldn't decide if that made matters better or worse. He allowed his fingers to run lower as he considered his options. If he wanted his brother's full cooperation, he had to make him fear the worst.  _Gods forgive me_. For all his newly found decadence, Robb had a noble heart in him, still striving to do right by all the Lord Starks in the crypt of Winterfell. He would not turn on his family that easily. He would not replace the Stark for a Snow if he could find even a glimmer of hope. If Robb saw the smallest chance to reason with their lord father, he would flat out reject Jon's plan for the treason that it was. It was better that Lord Stark ignored his son, Jon decided; it was better for Robb to think that their father meant to have Jon executed.

He looked around to make sure nobody was paying attention to them. Lady Stark was at the front row, Sansa behind her in a dress of green and cloth-of-gold, her auburn hair braided and tied up. Palla and Beth stood next to Robb, engaged in an apparently crucial debate. The brothers were all but hidden behind the massive shelter of Ser Rodrik's back; the big knight's head drooped to his side as he started snoring faintly.

"Can I?" He asked quietly. "Please, Robb." His brother gave him a slight nod, and Jon slipped his fingers between the laces of his breeches and gave his cock a firm stroke through his underclothes.

Robb shuddered and softly moaned a name, his name. Jon had almost forgotten what a sweet sound that was.

"It will be okay, trust me, please," Jon hummed at him repeatedly, caressing his length through the soft fabric. "We will be fine, I have a plan." He could feel his brother's heart thumping wildly as he turned to face him. It was the first time he had a good look at Robb since his return, and upon seeing him up close, Jon felt as if an invisible hand had suddenly squeezed the insides of his chest. Robb's face was ashen and colourless; his eyes were bloodshot as though he had not slept a whole season.  _Do I really plan on making it worse for him?_  This guilt felt not unlike his insides ripping apart.  _Do I not have any pity left in my heart? But I must, gods forgive me, I must._

"What is it?" Robb implored, and Jon patted him again, holding him close, until his brother calmed and slackened back against him. "What can we possibly do?" His words rang with such sheer hopelessness that nearly broke Jon's heart.

"We'll run away," he said.

Jon had expected Robb to react in many different ways. He had pictured his face contracting in shock, with his eyes wide, his jaw hanging low and his lips parted. He had imagined a frown passing over his brother's face like a cloud, his mouth tightening in sudden anger to hiss through gritted teeth that  _he was the heir to Winterfell,_ and that _he had his responsibilities,_ and that _he was going nowhere_. But if anything, Robb seemed strangely relieved.

"I've thought of it," he said. "Unless we both go to the Wall, there's nowhere in the North where we can hide."

"True enough," Jon nodded. "We have to leave the North."

"And go where?"

"I'll explain it all," Jon said, quickening the pace of his strokes. "We have to meet and I'll explain it all to you."

"It's too dangerous. There are eyes everywhere."

"Sansa's chamber tonight," Jon said. "Can you make it?"

"Sansa's –" Robb turned his head sideways to look at his sister. Her eyes were closed, her soft lips mumbling the words to the prayer. Jon remembered how close he came to feeling them pressed up against his mouth, and how his head pounded with shame when he had covered her up and pretended that she was her brother. She had approached him again afterwards, brimming with curiosity. She demanded to know what a boy would like to do with a girl and seemed almost desperate to find out who Jon had practised with. He avoided her questions, his cheeks burning silently for a brother who was not there. Instead, he taught her how to make Lady shake hands with her little paw, and that was the best apology he could find for a sister who was but an innocent child.

"Aye," Jon said, his fingers wrapping around his brother's twitching erection through the fabric. "Can you?"

"I can," he said.

"Swear you'll be there."

"I will, I swear," Robb muttered. "I swear." His eyes closed and he now fully surrendered himself to Jon's touch as the crowd in the sept broke into a hymn; their words of praise drowned Robb's sweet sighs and moans, his softly uttered oaths and vows. "I won't lose you, not to the gallows, not to the Wall, not to anyone. I'm tired, Jon, so tired. I just want to be with you, that's all."

"Nothing's changed," Jon swore quietly against the warm, almost feverish skin of his brother's neck. "We gave each other our words." Robb's breath hastened, and with the next squeeze of Jon's hand he buried his cry into a bite of his teeth on his lip. "You're mine."

"Yours," Robb's voice was faint, a rustle of leaves in the godswood.

Jon gave him one final, fluttering caress and released his hand from the wet linen of his underclothes. It was going to get cold and uncomfortable for him very soon, he knew, but hopefully Robb would manage to change before the food was served in the Great Hall.  _If not, well, at least he'd have something to remember me by_. He pressed his lips to the side of his brother's brow and mumbled softly, wistfully, the only true word he ever had. "Robb."

 

That afternoon was another perfect family tableau, drawn in the firm, colourful strokes of the late summer sun. Robb, handsome with the thick fur lining of his heavy cloak. His hands, resting on Bran's shoulders, correcting the boy's hold on his longbow. Rickon, seated up on Robb's shoulders, his light auburn curls dangling over his older brother's darker locks. Arya, perched on the low wooden wall, watching them in admiration tipped with jealousy. Sansa, Jeyne and Beth, laughing loudly by the gatehouse. Even Greyjoy, leaning against the armoury wall, fit into the picture like a crude brass frame.

"I could do better," Arya said, and Jon was hard pressed to disagree. It was Bran's sixth consecutive arrow to land in the left bushes.

"No shit," grumbled Greyjoy. "Even a blind mummer could do better." The drawl of his voice seemed longer, his eyes on Jon crueller. His lids were heavy, half closed.

"No man is born with a bow in hand," said Jon.

A seventh arrow hit the ground a stone's throw from the target. Greyjoy cocked his brow at Jon.

"That's good, Bran," said Robb. "Much better. This time your arrow went straight."

As the sun set behind the hills to the west, Old Nan called the children to change for dinner. Jon gathered the fallen arrows from the ground and from the left bushes, where at least half a quiver seemed to have disappeared. As he turned back towards the armoury, he was startled by a little hand on his arm.

"Jon?" Bran had two more arrows in his hand, and Jon collected them with a wan smile. "I was pretty bad, wasn't I?"

Jon hated that he had to look sideways and see if anyone was watching before he tousled his little brother's hair.  _Have you touched any of my other children?_  his father had asked. Jon regretted many of things he had done. He regretted all that he was forced and would be forced to do to save his skin. He regretted even more the times he had allowed the fingers of his anger to soothe him. He had told Robb some awful words; he had thought some hideous things he wished he hadn't ( _lately it's been Robb and Sansa, naked and inseparable in their colours_.) He had a lot to answer for, he was sure, but he was not the deviant monster his lord father now took him for.

"You'll get better," he told Bran. "Keep practising and listen to Robb."

"He always says I'm getting better. But I'm not."

"You will," Jon promised. "Each time you shoot, you get better. Mayhaps you'll find that you prefer the sword to the bow, like I do, but archery is still a very important skill to have."

"I know," Bran sniffed. "I just wish it'd be as easy as Robb makes it to be."

"Believe me, it wasn't easy for him," Jon smiled slightly at that, and recalled the set lines on his brother's face, when they were both no older than Bran. Robb had spent hours in the archery range, nocking arrow after arrow in an obstinate determination. Greyjoy, only two-and-ten but just as obnoxious, would come and watch him, and with an overly morose expression he would shake his head.  _Practise, little Lord Robb_ , he would sneer,  _practise some more_. "He's trying to be supportive."

"He's…" Bran hesitated. "He's good, right?"

Jon narrowed his eyes, nonplussed.

"I mean," Bran played with the hem of his tunic, his teeth gnawing on his lower lip. "If this was a story and Robb was the hero, he'd only do good things, right?"

"Well," Jon said. "Life is hardly a story, Bran." It was a strange thing to ask, even for his little brother who built castles out of clouds and often seemed to disregard the distinction between the gritty courtyards of Winterfell and Old Nan's worlds inside the blue eyes of a giant named Macomber. Bran gave him such an expectant look, though, and hadn't Jon asked peculiar questions of his own when he was seven? "Still, if there's anyone who is as honourable and just as Father, it's probably Robb."

Bran nodded. "He is, though, isn't he. He'd always do the right thing."

"Never saw him do otherwise."

"Good," Bran said. "I knew that." And just like that he turned, skipping towards the Great Hall. He made a detour by the inner wall and found a crack in the one of lower stones. Sure-footed and agile, he drew himself up to the lower ramparts. "Careful there, Bran," Robb said. He had just emerged from the armoury, with Arya trailing after him, trying as she had tried all day long to get him to admit that he  _had_  seen flayed people at the Dreadfort. Greyjoy walked next to them, his arm casually slung over Robb's shoulders. As they passed Sansa and her little friends, Greyjoy called out to them and they all burst out laughing. Rickon ran wildly in the yard, ignoring Old Nan's cries, flinging his arms up and down. Shaggydog and Bran's yet nameless pup were striving hard to catch the toddler.  _My lady should be proud, it is truly a perfect family tableau_ , Jon thought as he trudged back to the armoury with the arrows stacked under his arm,  _and I have no part in it_.

 

As the tower bells rang midnight, it became clear that Robb was not coming. Lady yawned next to the roaring fire of the hearth, but Ghost was tramping restlessly by the chamber door, ever so often clawing at the sturdy oak. Jon poured Sansa more wine, and then raised his cup to his lips. _To our missing brother, who has more important things to do than to keep his own fucking promises._

"He probably fell asleep," Sansa said. "He must be so tired."

"Aye," Jon said. It was possible, of course, that Robb was just tired. He had said so himself, trembled out his weariness as he spent his seed inside his underclothes. Back in the sept it seemed to Jon that his brother had meant a more figurative kind of lassitude; Robb was tired of uncertainty and fear, tired of constantly being pushed around.  _Which is exactly how I want him to feel, gods forgive me_. Nevertheless, sometimes Robb was as literal as only a trueborn Stark could be. Perhaps he was just what he said he was: tired. It was also just as likely that he was caught on his way to his sister's bedchamber.  _Or perhaps he has recalled that he is the heir to Winterfell and he has his responsibilities. Perhaps he has second thoughts._

"Don't worry," Sansa touched his arm gently. "We'll see him tomorrow morning."

He smiled at her and emptied his cup. His sweet sister had no understanding of the matters which were at stake, of how important it was that Jon explained to Robb just what he wanted them to do when the king arrived in Winterfell.  _It used to be simple_ , Jon thought and the knot in his stomach tightened painfully. It used to be that Robb would leave his door unbarred and Jon would come to him after the halls had emptied and the castle had fallen under its cold blanket of slumber and snow. It used to be that he would open his sleep-crusted eyes to see auburn curls spilling on his pillow and he would kiss that easy, lazy smile with its faint scent of golden wine. If Robb had only listened to him, if he had only kept his mouth shut near Greyjoy, it could have still been as simple, as perfect. Instead Jon was here in Sansa's bedchamber, sharing with her a pitcher of Dornish red.

"So who did you kiss, Jon? Why won't you tell me?" she asked again. "It was Jeyne, wasn't it?"

"Not Jeyne," he said.

"Tessa from the kitchens, then," she said. "Theon told us he has - well -"

"I don't share with Greyjoy," Jon said sharply.  _At least I hope I don't_. He recalled his dreams, vivid with the fresh smell of rain and the roar of a distant thunder, the lightning flashing inside a cold tent, trickles of sweat dribbling down Robb's skin, his fists closing on his furs in a silent moan, and Greyjoy digging bruises into his hips.

"You truly won't tell me?"

"Truly," Jon said. He filled his cup and turned the pitcher towards her, but she shook her head and showed him her half full cup.  _A slow drinker_ , he thought with a sinking feeling,  _she's only doing it to please me. Would she do anything else just to please someone?_

"Mayhaps you should tell me," he slowly said. "Why all those kissing questions?"

She took a sip from her cup, but said nothing.

He could not honestly blame her if she was just curious. They all had their reasons for the things they did, and most of them made no sense in his eyes. Why had his father brought him, a babe with a dangerous secret, to Winterfell, risking his reputation and his marriage? Why had Robb let him do all those appalling things that he'd done to him, let him take out his anger ( _and those other, scarier feelings which have no name_ ) on his sweet, trusting body? Why had Greyjoy chosen to rat on them precisely when he had, even though he obviously liked Robb in his own wicked way?

Compared to them, Sansa was understandable. She was just a little girl from a distant northern realm. What little knowledge she had was derived from carefully selected passages of the Seven Pointed Star, where all girls were the Maiden and all women were the Mother. There was no in-between. She was curious, reason enough. It was better than his anger, anger for a brother who was not there, anger for the feelings he could not articulate and the words he could not pronounce. He did not know how to tell that he  _loved_ , that he  _missed_. All boys were the Warrior, and all men were the Father, and that was all Jon had been taught. He had plenty of words such as fury, rage, wrath and vengeance, but few such as sadness or hurt.

"And then," his sister added, looking straight at him, "the king  _is_  visiting Winterfell."

"So?"

"So," she said, "I don't plan on staying in the north." Her shoulders suddenly tensed, as if she was about to cry. "If Prince Joffrey likes me…"

"You wanted to practise for the prince?" he asked incredulously.

"I want to go south," her voice was but a whisper. "They have dancing balls which last all night. All the lovely ladies wear sleeveless dresses of silver and gold. They throw tournaments every full moon. In the south there's flowers in the gardens and never any snow –" She sighed. "Can you imagine? No snow. Father would have us all married to other northerners if he could, but I don't want wed some wildling with a big beard from the Karhold or from the Last Hearth. Then I'd be stuck here in this cold and snow forever."

 _A little lady,_ Jon thought as he looked at his little half-sister as if for the first time, _but perhaps we're not all that different, she and I._  After all, he knew exactly what it was like to be confined inside the cage of his birth when he deserved more. She wanted the sun and the flowers of the southern capital as much as he wanted his brother's noble name and heart.

"Well, if that's so," he told her, "don't let Prince Joffrey kiss you."

"Wouldn't he like that?"

"He'd like that well enough," Jon said. "But he wouldn't like you." A few years back he had overheard Greyjoy explaining the facts of life to an impressionable Robb.  _Highborn ladies won't let you touch them,_  he'd said.  _That's what you have lowborn girls for. You can take them, you can fuck them. Ask Snow, that's what his mother was. A whore._

"No kissing at all?" 

"A quick kiss, mayhaps," he said. "Like you would to a brother."

"Do you mislike me now, Jon?" she asked timidly. "Because I ask you about kissing?"

He shook his head. "That's different." If anything, he liked Sansa much better now than as a miniature copy of Lady Stark. "I understand. Mayhaps I would have wanted the same."

"That's why you want to go to the Wall," she said quietly. He froze in his place.

"What?" He asked.

"Don't you?"

"Why would you say that?" He asked slowly and laid his wine cup on the table.

"Am I wrong?" she said, "I just thought so since, well, I went to Father's study this afternoon, and  – well – honestly, I shouldn't be saying this –"

"What was it?" He reached for her hand. "Please tell me, Sansa."

"It's just, Father was busy talking to Poole, so I just waited there, and I – I saw a letter from Castle Black. From uncle Benjen. And I thought that – well, since it's my uncle, I could look at it… just a little."

"Did you?"

She nodded. "Uncle wrote he'd be honoured to take you, if that's your wish."

 _If that's my wish_. That was his lord father's decision, then, not death but next closest thing. He was going to present it as though Jon was the one to ask to go to the Wall. And why wouldn't he? If Jon decided to take the black, who would doubt the sincerity of his action? It was not uncommon for bastard-born young men to try their luck on the icy heights of the Wall. Up there, the wildlings didn't care if your mother was a highborn lady to be cherished or a lowborn girl to be fucked. They would gladly kill you all the same.

"I think you should go," Sansa said. "We should both go. I can be a Southron lady, and you can be a hero on the Wall, a ranger like Uncle. And we'll both come to visit Robb in Winterfell when his lady wife gives him children. We could all be happy, Jon."

Those words came so effortlessly to his sister's lips. She had always felt so secure in her parents' love; of course she had no qualms about leaving. Jon had never felt secure in anything, not even in Robb's gallant oaths. He understood what it meant to be caged, but Sansa's cage was made of the perfect familial tableau he had always dreamed of and from which he would forever be excluded. His true chance, the only chance he had left, was with the brother who was all to him, the brother who was all he could not express.  _Love you, Robb Stark_ , he had once managed to mumble, when it was either that or to lose everything, but he could no longer find the words to articulate those emotions, not when Robb was not around. Warrior or Father, that was simple enough. Hate, anger or jealousy, he understood those well. The rustling of leaves in the godswood, soft words of tenderness, he did not know what to do with those, not when Robb was not around.  _And he's not here now, is he?_

 

But the new light brought with it a promise. For the world had ground to a halt and time had held still, as Jon awoke from a fitful sleep to a sound sweeter than the early birds' song. His door opened a crack and a brother slipped under his furs, feverishly warm, the wool of his nightclothes scraping Jon's bare skin. He buried his face in the hollow of Jon's neck.

"Jon?" The softest whisper vibrated against his skin, prodding him from his dreams of pale moonlight through the leaves of the godswood. Hands wrapped around him and it was just like when they were both children:  _it's cold, the rain, I had a dream, the thunder, I can't sleep_. Now that child had a day old beard and his apologies."Jon, I-"

"Don't care," he mumbled and turned to him. Whether it was second thoughts of his responsibilities for Winterfell, or Greyjoy in his bedchamber poisoning his ears, Jon didn't want to hear about it. What was done was done, and if Robb would listen to his plan, they would have all the time, all the time in the world together. The only thing he cared about was that Robb had kept his sweet promises, and he swallowed his brother's excuses and regret into a deep kiss.

"You really shouldn't be here," he told him, lips sore as they traced the bristles on his chin.

"Nowhere else I should be," Robb said.

"Did anybody -"

"No, but we don't have long," Robb curled up in his arms, their brows pressed close together. "Tell me all."

So Jon did, as the first rays of dawn started to wash through the small windows and the birds twittered the morning for them. His brother had been right in the sept; save for the Wall, there was not one place in the North where they could hide. There was not one lord in the North, not even the menflayers of the Dreadfort, who would risk the wrath of Lord Stark by providing refuge for his sons.

"Then we go where?" Robb asked as he had in the sept. "To the Free Cities? Live by our swords?"

"No need to go that far," Jon said and laid out his plan into the crook of Robb's neck. There were at least two places in Westeros of which they knew, two large castles of old and powerful houses, where they would definitely be welcome. In those places Jon was probably more important than Robb would ever be.

"They say there's great food in Sunspear if you can stand the heat," Jon said, his lips drawing a warm path over his brother's collarbone. "But of course Casterly Rock has all the gold."

"And supposing we don't get caught in White Harbor," Robb said slowly, "would we just hide there for the rest of our lives? Live in fear?"

Jon shook his head. "We find out why they want me. And when the time comes, we raise your claim on Winterfell as the eldest son."

Robb stilled in Jon's arms. "That is treason," he said.

"Aye," Jon nodded. "If we fail, Father would truly kill us both."

His brother's face hardened, and this time, it was not a mask; he looked like the lord he would someday be, if all went according to plan. "If it is worth killing for," Robb said quietly, "then it is surely worth dying for."


	5. Shadow of a Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was when Rickon would laugh, or Sansa would take his hand in hers, or those rare and precious moments when his lady mother would give him a little smile, that Robb could not bear the thought of never seeing them again. Or worse yet, the thought of them growing up to see him as a traitor and despising him as much as he despised Theon, so warm and terribly close to him.
> 
> Chapter 5, in which the choices were given and now Robb must live them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), for which many thanks, my undying love and a bucketful of madeleines.

"Only the best ale for m'lord," the innkeeper promised. 

If by _best_ he meant _hog piss_ , then Robb supposed the man was true to his word. He slowly sipped from his mug, leaning back against the rough wattle-and-daub wall of the Smoking Log. It had gradually become cosier under the thatched roof of the tavern as more villagers poured in to enjoy their cups in the cold of the night. The smallfolk kept a wide berth from him, wary of the direwolf pup resting by his feet. A scruffy old man, who loudly claimed to be a bard but looked more a gong farmer, started strumming on a worn lute with stubby fingers; the villagers promptly joined him for a lustful song about a lover of a Dornishman's wife. Robb allowed his eyes to slowly close, comforted by the melody, the warmth and the ale in his veins.

"Another drink, m'lord?" A serving girl smiled at him. He nodded and she whisked his mug away.

He had been riding all day, he was tired and sore, and he was in no hurry to return to the castle. In the last week he had become a ghost in Winterfell, setting out to ride at the break of dawn and returning well after dark. Each time there was work to be done outside the castle, it was always Robb who was sent to handle it. He was not entirely certain whether his lord father meant to bestow more responsibilities upon him, or whether Lord Eddard's true intention was to keep him from seeing Jon. _Or perhaps_ , he thought with a slight lump in his throat, _he would use any excuse to be rid of me._

Whichever reason it was, Robb had barely managed to catch a glimpse of his brother. This morning they had enjoyed a rare respite. A rider bearing the Baratheon sigil reached Winterfell to announce the imminent arrival of King Robert's party on the following morrow. The castle broke into a renewed flurry of activity, and Jon caught up with Robb in the stables and held him tightly as he saddled his horse. Robb laid his head on his brother's shoulder, and they stole furtive kisses and words ( _When this is all over_ , Jon had said,  _I'll fuck you for days. I won't let you go. I'll tie you to the bed and fuck you till you faint, and when you wake up I'll fuck you again._ ) Robb had tried to cling to that soothing, earthy scent of Jon's skin, but it slowly faded as he left for the outlying villages to sort out the trivial grievances of the smallfolk.  _It's Jon I need to talk to,_ he thought miserably, _not some grubby peasant who stole his neighbour's goat_. He took a large gulp from the ale and let the heavy mug clunk back on the wooden table. He had already risked it all to see Jon in his bedchamber by the first light of dawn a week ago. Now he did not dare to sneak out again, not when so much was at stake.

So _much at stake, yet I still have no inkling of what to do_. The choices were clear enough, even through the mist of ale. Keep Winterfell but lose Jon to the Wall, lose Winterfell but keep Jon, or… murder. _The Wall or Dorne or murder_ … the words left an ill rhythm in his woozy head. As if on cue, some of the villagers sprang up from their seats into a dance, the strumming of the lute now joined by a pair of drums and the tapping of their feet on the earthen floor. Grey Wind stirred under the table and howled discontentedly. It was a background noise of the lowborn, they who knew nothing of the burden of duty and had no worries but their harvest. _And their fucking stolen goats_. Robb let his eyes close again. He had been drifting off, head tilted back and mouth slightly agape, when the bench budged underneath him. The lining of a heavy fur cloak brushed his cheek, jolting him from his sleep. Robb could not say he was surprised to see the dark blue eyes of his lord father's ward, observing him almost fondly.

"Enough with the drinks, sweetling," Theon told the serving girl who had just returned to refill Robb's mug. _Theon Greyjoy,_ Robb thought hazily as his head dropped against Theon's shoulder, _the turncloak, the conspirator, and mayhaps Jon's only possible hope… and if Jon only knew, gods_. Theon rummaged through his pockets, thumped a few coins on the table and proceeded to scoop Robb up from the bench, draping Robb's arm over his shoulders.

"What are you doing?" Robb mumbled.

"Fun's over, lad," Theon said. "Time to go home, it's a big day tomorrow."

As rotten luck would have it, Robb had seen plenty and enough of Theon in the past days. The traitor had stopped him from keeping the oath he had so fervently sworn to Jon in the sept, had escorted him back to his bedchamber, his fingers locked firmly around Robb's arm. With a shuffle of the furs, the mattress gave under an unfamiliar weight as Theon lounged behind him. "I can either be here or at your father's," Theon said as he clasped Robb closer to his chest. "You decide."  _Another threat_ , Robb thought as the vile heat built inside of him to the scrape of Theon's stubble against his neck,  _but are Theon's threats as much a pretence as my protests?_  He thought Theon would wank him off as he had in the tent (and later, strangely wordless behind a low bush in the arid tundra, he made them squat on the ground and again stroked Robb to release.) He had not touched him though; perhaps that was meant to be his lesson for sneaking out.

"What were you doing outside?" Theon asked instead, his chin resting on the crook of Robb's neck. "Did you want your brother to fuck you, little Lord Robb? You must've missed him terribly to risk so much." His fingers tangled in Robb's hair. "Is that what you wanted, the bastard to take care of you? Go on, then. Treat yourself."He nudged Robb's hand down, and slowly sucked on his shoulder as Robb inserted his fingers through the laces of his breeches and hesitantly tugged his cock out. His cheeks were burning; shame and arousal settled like a stone in his chest. He had not wanted this, he told himself. Mayhaps in the privacy of his furs he would have taken his frustration into his palm, but not like that. Then the sept bell rang midnight and he felt Theon behind him, stiff and swollen through the linen. Theon rutted against him much like he had done anything else – leisurely, lazily, almost absently. "Do it, Robb," he whispered. "Let me feel you come." So Robb had, and his pleasure left a sickeningly bitter taste in his mouth.

Theon had once been his friend. He had considered him an older brother. Theon trained him with wooden swords when he was five and showed him the proper way to loose his arrows when he was seven. He gave him his first true taste of liquor when he was one-and-ten, and at four-and-ten he cajoled him into joining his rides to Winter Town. Now Robb was almost a man grown and Theon was neither a friend nor a brother. The loss sometimes hurt more than the betrayal. Now something in Robb lashed out in anger at Theon and his ministrations, even with favours as small and simple as leading him out of the tavern.

"I don't need your help," Robb hissed at him.

"Can you even ride back, little lord?" Theon asked as he hooked his arm around Robb's waist. "Drunkenly tumbling from your horse isn't a death befitting a Stark."

"And murder is?"

"I wouldn't know," Theon grinned as he hoisted Robb along, pulling him towards the doors of the tavern, "but I reckon you're drunk enough to say just about anything now." The villagers moved aside, clearing a path for the two young lords and the direwolf skulking after them. _They must be relieved to see the back of us. Them and each of their fucking stolen goats._

A sharp wind blew between the huts and hovels of the village; a fresh layer of snow covered the thatched roofs. Theon's horse was tied next to Robb's brown palfrey by the side of the tavern. The stable boy doubled as a night watchman, and was nonetheless sleeping soundly on a pile of hay, his palm covering his bulbous face, spittle dripping at the corner of his mouth. Theon kicked him awake with the edge of his heavy boot, and the man's snores came to an abrupt stop as he jumped to his feet.

"Ready our horses," Theon ordered. "Tie the brown to the grey."

"Yes, m'lord." The man swayed, his feet unstable, and groggily scurried towards the horses.

Theon's grey gelding was slightly taller than Robb's palfrey, and this made it harder to mount up the makeshift saddle, or so Robb tried to convince himself. "Hold tight," Theon told him as he helped him up, and he wrapped Robb's arms securely around his waist. Robb was not used to riding pillion like a maiden. It was an unfamiliar sensation, along with the heat of Theon's back, rocking against him to the steady pace of the horse's gait as they slowly made their way back to the castle. It made Robb think back of when he was little. Sansa had just been born and his lady mother was occupied with the new babe. Robb had never been jealous of his sister; he let his competitive side flourish through his stick swordfights with Jon. One dawn, however (Old Nan had told him, for he could not remember), his cot had been empty and his nursemaid found him curled to sleep by the door to his lady mother's chambers. That day his lord father had taken him riding in the forest (Robb remembered that clearly: they stopped by a stream and a rare ray of sunlight reflected across the frozen water in a dazzling rainbow of colours.) A child of two and a half, he had held to his father tightly, with his head pressed to his back much like how he now slumped on Theon's.  _Mayhaps Father smiled at me then. He tousled my hair, he must have._

The horses were climbing the old trail on the hills south of Winterfell before Robb started letting loose the questions which were gnawing at him. His nose was buried at the nape of Theon's neck, his words muffled by the harsh wind. "Was it all just to get your revenge on my lord father?" he asked.

For a while Robb thought Theon would not deign to answer, but when he did, he was atypically sombre. "It sweetens the deal, no doubt," he said, "as does having his firstborn son deep in the plot." Robb had to admit there was a touch of the poetic to Theon's design. _My father and the king had his father's sons killed. Now he plots to make my father's son have him killed during the king's hunt._

"It only sweetens the deal," Robb repeated. "What are you truly after?"

Theon looked back at him, loosely holding the reins of his horse. The grey gelding, well familiar with the area, carried up the trail without guidance. Grey Wind ran a few paces ahead of them, watchful and alert, his tail wagging. "Will you be able to –" he said as he bent towards Robb, "– how did my lord of Stark put it – pass the sentence and swing the sword?"

Robb stilled and sent him a guarded look. "I've never said that I agreed to this. I've never even thought of it."

In fact he had, a lot, but it was best not to let Theon know of the maddening turmoil inside his mind. At times he would want nothing more than to run away, spend the frozen nights deep in Jon's embrace on the road to White Harbor, share a cabin on a Lysene galley and set sail south to Dorne, just the two of them, without having to sneak out or to lie any longer. If they were caught, it would surely be the end of them both, he knew, but that was not the reason for his second thoughts. It was when Rickon would laugh, or Sansa would take his hand in hers, or those rare and precious moments when his lady mother would raise her head and give him a little smile, that he could not bear the thought of never seeing them again. Or worse yet, the thought of them growing up to see him as a traitor and despising him as much as he despised Theon, so warm and terribly close to him.

At other times he would think he had already reached his final decision and a bizarre calm would wash over him. He should step back, he would tell himself, and let Jon take the black. It was time he stopped being selfish by trying to hold the rope at both ends. Mayhaps the Wall would not be so bad; mayhaps Jon would like it there, where he could be accepted as equal. _And I would show Father where my loyalty truly lies, and perhaps he could bear the sight of me again_. It would only be temporary, in any case. When Robb became the Lord of Winterfell, he would bring his brother back. All they needed was patience. In order to wash his hands of the entire affair, however, he had to be certain that his lord father had no intention of executing Jon. He wasn't certain, at all. His father had refused to tell him a thing, and the doubt left him torn and lost yet again. _The wall or Dorne or… murder_. He would get to keep his lady mother, his brothers and sisters, and Winterfell. _And what if it's the only way to save Jon?_

"I'm willing to do this for you," Theon said, and his lips curled into a sneer, "and for your beloved bastard brother. I'll save his life, little Lord Robb, worry not. But it comes with a price."

Robb felt not unlike a rabbit hopping straight into a snare as he slowly asked: "And your price?"

Theon's smile widened. "I do wish you were born a girl," he said. He splayed his palm over Robb's cheek and his thumb traced the line of his mouth. "Fortunately, you have a sister."

 _We could've married and ruled the north together_ , Theon had once told him, and perhaps that was what he was after all along. The conspirator's fingers edged in between his lips. His skin tasted sweet on Robb's tongue. "You think I'd sell my sister to kill my father," he finally said, quietly.

"Well," Theon said, "that depends on how much you truly love the bastard."

"Fuck you to seven hells, Theon," he spat. "Just fuck you."

"Funny," the traitor, _once a friend_ , murmured in his ear. "It's the opposite I had in mind."

 

What Theon had in mind, it seemed, was another lesson. Robb buried his face in the furs of his bed and Theon passed his hand over the curve of his ass as his mouth trailed down his neck. Robb had objected and protested at first. Theon had not forced him; no one could say that he had, as much as it would have made things easier on Robb's mind. "I'd go, if that's what you truly want," Theon said as he started to undress him. "It'd be a shame, though," he said as he removed Robb's riding boots and his woollen socks, pulling them one after the other. "I can help you," he said as he turned Robb to lie on his side and unlaced his breeches. "Do what I say and I could help you meet your bastard brother," he promised with sugar-coated words as he nudged him upwards with his elbow so he could also take off his smallclothes. "I'd even let him fuck you," he added as his hands deliberated by the hem of Robb's leather tunic. He did not remove it. For some reason, Robb thought, lying with his belly to the furs, his chest covered and his ass bare, seemed even more obscene than total nudity.

"Must we go through this each time anew?" Theon asked between pats and kisses. " _Theon, go. Theon, don't touch me_. You're not fooling anyone." He lay on his stomach next to him, supported by his elbow. His other hand wrapped around Robb, palm resting on his backside. "We both know you'll like it," he told him as he gently grazed his neck with his teeth. "I'll make it nice for you."

"I just want to see Jon," Robb murmured. His head was spinning, he felt sick. Too much ale, too few hours of sleep. _But Theon said he'd help me. He promised._ The thought of Jon so close yet still out of reach had become intolerable, like an infected wound to his chest. _But what if it's another lie?_ It was probable, but somehow Robb didn't think so, not this time. He suspected Theon wanted them to get together; it would amuse him to watch. _He's not the jealous type. He doesn't mind what I do as long as he gets his share_. Theon caressed his ass slowly, fingers fluttering over his skin. He ran his hand upwards to his lower back, and down again between his thighs, until Robb let out a low moan.

"You're my little brother," Theon told him softly. "I'll do that for you. I'll bring you your bastard, if it pleases you. I'll even put an arrow through your father." He moved his hand up to wrap over Robb's chin and hooked his thumb at the corner of his mouth, pulling his lips apart. "And in the meantime, I'll take care of you."

Once, when he could still call him a friend, Theon had confided in him. "I covet what you have," he'd said. "What I will never have. A family." Robb had been filled with horrible pity at the sound of those words. Now it seemed to him that he had completely misjudged their meaning. Theon had never wanted his old family back; he had barely remembered Lord Greyjoy or his dead brothers. What he wanted was simply and plainly what he had said – Robb's family. He wanted Sansa as his betrothed. He wanted Robb squirming on the furs underneath him. Even Jon, unbeknown to him, was entirely within Theon's grasp. _I should not have pitied him. I should have mistrusted him._

"You have your girls, your – whores," Robb mumbled. It was hard to speak clearly with a thumb edging in his mouth. "Why me?"

"Haven't you figured it out already?" Theon said, and his index finger joined his thumb, pressing into Robb's mouth, pads resting on his tongue. "It's not just fucking. Ask Snow, he'd tell you no whore feels as good as making the son of Stark a whore." Robb felt his cheeks flush red and his cock harden against the furs. Those words were Jon's and Jon's alone to whisper in his ear, at times soft and calm, at times angry and violent. It was the one victory Robb gladly handed over to his brother. _Theon has no right to say that, and I have no right to feel so aroused by it._

"Come on, Robb, suck," Theon said, and Robb obediently latched onto his fingers. "Just like that. The bastard's really taught you well, hasn't he?" He added his middle finger. "When was the last time you got fucked? Nothing since the godswood, I bet." Theon's smile widened. "You'll want it wet, then."

"Please," Robb muttered when Theon took his fingers out.

"Please what?" He shifted to lie on his side, his hand moved down Robb's back and his wet fingers nudged in between his ass cheeks. He rested them on his tight entrance, pressing gently until Robb let out a grunt.

"Just Jon."

Theon chuckled. "Don't worry, lad, I won't fuck you. Not yet. I'm going to teach you patience first." When his finger slid inside Robb it felt slick and slippery. It's been almost three weeks since Jon last had him. He was tense and scared, his head was whirling, but Theon worked him loose with his finger unhurriedly, much like the way he had rutted against him, much like the way he did anything else. "You missed that?" he asked, and pressed their brows together. "Feels good?"

"I truly hate you," Robb groaned. "You know that, right?"

"Not half as much as you'd like to hate me, I suspect." His grin was lazy, his finger boring deeper inside. "Look at me, Robb. Let me see you."

Robb glared at him silently, his eyes narrowed and his breath heavy.

"You can't have it all the moment you want it," Theon said. He pulled his finger out to its tip and slowly twisted it back in. "I can't protect you if you keep sneaking out. Can't help you if you keep being careless." Robb slackened against the furs, his muscles relaxing under the slow, steady pace of the finger inside him. "Someone could've seen you in the stables." His limbs trembled slightly each time Theon's finger was fully inside him, almost touching that spot which always made him jolt. Almost, not quite, but enough to make him dizzy. "Someone could've seen you in the sept. Next to your dear mother, no less." And he added his middle finger, gently working it through his entrance. "You need to learn patience, little lord, or you'll be your own doom."

He tangled his other hand in Robb's messed mop of curls on the furs, while he spread his fingers slightly apart, bent them and shoved them deeper, and Robb shivered. "That's where it feels good, doesn't it?" Theon whispered to him. "Makes you feel like you're on fire, right? Tell me how it feels." Robb bit his lip. _I won't tell him, I won't. That whoreson can see it well enough on my face, gods. Fuck him to seven hells._

"Did your bastard brother show you how good it feels?" he curled his fingers backwards and the sound Robb uttered was a whine that carried into a growl. Of course Jon had, Theon knew that, Robb had told him all back when he could still call him a friend. Jon liked to fuck him with his fingers while he was on all fours, liked to make Robb bring himself off while Jon's fingers were inside him, liked the way he contracted and shook around him. Sometimes he made Robb finger himself while he sucked Jon off. He would say the most terrible things then. _Yes, Stark, shove it inside you, what a sight you are with your fingers deep in your asshole. Who would have thought the heir to Winterfell was such an eager little cocksucker_. Jon had never quite done it like that, though, just had Robb sprawled on the furs and fingered him lazily while breathing soft words of _how good it was_. Jon had never really been interested in making it _good_ for Robb.

"Theon," Robb mumbled. "Harder."

"I think not," Theon whispered to his lips. The slow thrusts of his fingers pressed Robb down on the feather mattress, making him brush himself on the furs. "It doesn't have to hurt, Robb. It can be gentle. The bastard didn't show you that."

"Theon, Theon, please." The words became a string of moans and gasps, a terribly ill rhythm such as the one which wouldn't stop playing in his mind, _the Wall or Dorne or…_

"Patience," Theon said before he put his mouth on Robb's to silence him. He licked his lips, nudging them open, his tongue loosening Robb just like his fingers were opening him up. _Which will you find worse, Jon, the fingers or the tongue?_ _Forgive me for doing this, gods, forgive me for liking it_. Theon's lips were velvety red and moist, his touch soft and playful, a nip here, a little bite there. Robb's eyes closed and that vile heat rose in him, that heat which had started building from the moment he had held tightly to Theon's back while riding pillion on his gelding, that heat which had surged as Theon barred his bedchamber's door, undressed him and laid him with his face buried in his furs. He hardly noticed it when he caught Theon's bottom lip between his teeth, sucked on it while he buckled down to the mattress, rubbing his swollen erection on the furs.

"Are you humping your furs, Robb?" Theon asked him between kisses, his tone verging on mocking, his fingers moving a bit faster to keep up with Robb. "Like a little boy? Are you bringing yourself off on your mattress?"

Robb broke away from the kiss, eyes fiery, his skin sweaty and flushed.

"Go on," Theon said. "Jerk on your furs. You really are just a little boy, aren't you? But I'll make a man out of you yet. I'll show you how good it can be." Robb was swearing and panting deeply; his head throbbed in quick pulses. He thrust his hips against the furs while Theon's fingers stopped moving and instead pressed deeply inside him. "We'll have it good when you're the lord of the castle. You can go fuck your brother each time you feel like it, and when you want a change, you can come to me. I'll have your sister too. Hells, I'll have you both. That'd be nice, wouldn't it, Robb?"

"Shut it," Robb hissed, bucking against him.

"I'll fuck her, then I'll fuck you." Theon whispered close in his ear.

"Will you fucking shut it!"

"Perhaps I'll lay you side by side and fuck you together in turns."

Robb's fist rose from the mattress, half in mind to push Theon away, half in mind to punch him right in the face. But then, bright and sudden it hit him and his fingers curled anew over the edge of the fur. He groaned heavily. Waves of almost shocking pleasure rocked him around Theon's fingers as he spent his seed on the furs. _Like a little boy. Like waking up from a wet dream_. It was neither his anger and hatred, nor the thought of Theon overpowering both him and his little sister which had finally sent him over the edge, but the complete and utter depravity of the entire situation. Him, the heir to the castle, fingerfucked to seven hells by Theon Greyjoy who would see Jon beheaded and Winterfell burnt. _Wrong, so terribly wrong…_

"Fuck," he mumbled and collapsed, dirtied and wrecked. Theon gently pulled his fingers out and laced them together with his other hand, curving them at the back of Robb's head. He drew Robb by his hair to rest on his lower stomach, his cheek almost rubbing on Theon's groin. His cock pulsed hard against his skin and his leather riding breeches smelt salty, of horses and sweat and the sea. Robb sighed, his lids heavy, and looked up questioningly at his former friend.

Theon shook his head. "Just stay there, Robb, will you? For a while." He stroked his hair, tucking curl after sweaty curl back in place. He might have said something else, but Robb would never know what, since his eyes had already closed and he had fallen asleep on his soiled furs, under the tender touch.

 

When he woke up it was still dark and his throat was sore. It felt like he was choking on a whetstone. He tumbled out of bed, feeling the stickiness of his furs clinging to his bare legs. Theon had already left. _Not the cuddling type either_. There was enough moonlight streaming from the windows to find the water pitcher on his nightstand. A thin layer of frost had gathered on top of the chilly water inside. The early birds had not started their song yet, but dawn was inevitable, tomorrow was inevitable. By noon at the latest the king would be in Winterfell, and everything would change. _The Wall_ _or Dorne or murder_. It was the last day of his old life, Robb thought, and now he really could not go back to sleep.

He changed into clean woollen clothes and slipped into his boots. His bedchamber's door screeched like an entire northern army through the silence of the slumbering castle as he closed it behind him. _The Wall. Lose Jon to the Night's Watch, he'll rot there in the ice and my heart will grow cold alone in Winterfell…_

His feet carried him not down one flight of stairs as usual, but up two floors and down the corridor to the eastern wing of the Great Keep. _Or Dorne. Lose sweet Sansa and her lemony scent, fierce Arya who can shoot an arrow better than any of us, Bran and his castles in the sky, and little Rickon running wildly in the yard, and Mother, my mother…_

He pressed his ear to the heavy wooden door, but could not hear his lord father's heavy breathing. Relieved, he gently pushed open the door. His heart was thumping madly in his chest. Lately the entire castle had felt a stranger, each stride in its hall a murmur of farewell. But even when he was a child and ruled the corridors of Winterfell with Jon ever so loyal at his heels, Robb's little feet had hardly ever taken him to this part of the castle. The warmest chambers in Winterfell, he now remembered. It had always felt a bit too stuffy in here, like his lord father's silent apology for plucking his mother out of the south.

_Or murder. Father's gentle and kind face. Father's honourable and dutiful ways. Father's cold eyes on me. You have shamed yourself, he said. I'd have you sent to the Wall. Go, before I regret my decision._

"Mother?" he whispered. Lady Catelyn's eyes flashed open to look at her firstborn as she sat up in her bed. Eyes as blue as his own. _Does she know? What would she say?_ "Robb," her voice was alarmed. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened," he said quietly. "Can I – just stay here, Mother? For a little while."

His mother took him into her arms and he sank his head on her shoulder. He could not cry, not in front of her, not in front of anyone but Jon, but he could hold on to her warmth and silently pray for her to understand. _Help me make the choice, Mother. I want to do right, but I don't know right from wrong anymore._ Those were not tears streaming down his eyes. Those were not. _The Wall, or Dorne… or murder._


	6. Vertigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I hear you like games, Snow," Greyjoy drawled. "Come-into-my-castle, Rape-me-in-the-godswood… I didn't realise you were such a jolly boy." Jon glowered silently and Robb tightened his hold on his waist. "Well, here's my game," Greyjoy said. "Let's see if you want in."
> 
> Chapter 6, in which the young men arise and play before Theon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many heartfelt thanks to [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife) for beta-reading, polluting my mind with shameless smut, and being generally awesome. You win an all-inclusive dream holiday at the Hyatt Regency Winterfell!

Jon could not stop staring.

His brother's lips were chapped, bruised, and it probably meant nothing. It was caused by the biting cold, or else Robb might have chewed on them like he was still prone to do when stressed. Just a small, meaningless detail, Jon knew. He settled back on his perch by the windowsill overlooking the practice yard, and pulled his legs closer under his chin. Just below, his brother drew back as Prince Joffrey slowly circled around him. Both boys were clad in padded leather armour, wooden swords in hand. Robb, who never had much patience for feints, seized on an opening when the prince moved to his right; he jabbed at his shoulder and Joffrey fell down on his royal arse. The crowd of spectators knew better than to laugh. Even Theon Greyjoy, standing behind Robb, kept his silence for once.

"Here you are, Joff," said Robb and offered his hand to the prince.

"I can stand on my own, Stark," Joffrey said, his voice laced with ice, as he found his footing again. His backside was wet with mud.

"As you say," Robb bowed his head slightly. When he raised it back, his eyes met Jon's. The ghost of a smile flickered on his mouth. _Puffy lips_. _Like he's been kissed for hours_. He quickly winked at Jon before rearranging his face into the very image of highborn courtesy. _With his flushed cheeks, and his glazed eyes, the way he looks after he's been properly fucked._ Jon smiled back at his brother.

He found very little reason to smile nowadays.

The royal visit sat better with some than with others, it seemed. Lord and Lady Stark appeared preoccupied, even distressed, but the young ones followed the king's men around, fascinated by their strange clothes and accents. Sansa was walking on clouds, twirling in her new dresses with her face matching the colour of her hair whenever Joffrey was within sight. Their lord father would have her betrothed to the prince, or at least that was what Arya had disdainfully reported to Jon. His little sister was one of the few in the castle to still seek his company. He had become a shadow in Winterfell, the unseen bastard son, exiled once again to the lower benches lest his existence offend the royal sensibilities. Uncle Benjen was kind enough to Jon during the welcoming feast yesterday, hugged him almost as he would hug a son of his loins, but on the morrow his eyes had grown distant. _How much does Uncle know?_ Jon wondered. _Did Father tell him of the godswood?_ Whatever it was that his uncle had heard, it was enough to keep him at arm's length. Jon shut his eyes tight at the memory of his uncle's cold eyes. He could not deny that it had hurt, terribly, and it hurt still. _A bastard, born of lust and betrayal, Uncle thinks that too. Well, let them all think that. In a couple of days it won't matter._ Jon shifted in his place on the sill and looked back on the yard.

"Defend yourself, Stark," hissed the prince below. "Unless you've grown tired."

"Not at all." Robb scarcely had time to flash a smile before Joffrey was at him again, their wooden swords clashing one against the other. Bran and Rickon cheered from amidst the onlookers, clapping their little hands.

Robb seemed to adapt quite well to the royal visit, Jon resentfully thought. He was enjoying himself at the feast, or at least making a bloody good mummer's show out of it. He had laughed and clapped Greyjoy on his shoulder; his cheeks were glowing with the warmth of wine. Jon had been staring at him, staring for days, it seemed. He had seen him going on his knees before King Robert and Queen Cersei, wearing a grave face and a fine tunic of grey wool trimmed with white. Jon had seen him conversing with the king's men near the armoury, with Greyjoy standing so closely behind him that his breath blew Robb's curls aside. This was not the sweet brother who would whisper Jon's name so tenderly at his release, as if the world itself was nothing but the two of them. Now, as Jon watched his brother fending off Prince Joffrey's well-placed hits, he was plagued again by those unsettling emotions, thinking how Robb's lordly mask threatened to become his true face, and as always, that desperate need to hold him tight, to shove him down and fuck him into the mud, to finally claim him back. _And his fucking puffy lips_.

A hand crept on his shoulder and Jon lurched back, surprised.

"It's impolite to stare, Snow," said Greyjoy.

His lord father's ward was leaning lazily by the corner of the windowsill, a smile on his hateful face. Jon had to maintain that farce of civility with him when others were nearby, but now there was no one here but them. "Fuck off," he growled at him. He tried to toss his hand away, but Greyjoy was stronger by far; his fingers curled tightly into the folds of Jon's tunic. With Jon seated on the high ledge, their eyes were level, mocking dark blue against his blazing grey.

"It's sad, isn't it," Greyjoy said. "Now all you can do is watch."

Jon shrugged and pointedly fixed his eyes back on Robb down in the yard. His heart beat faster at those words, but all the same, it was best to ignore Greyjoy when he was out for blood. _And he doesn't have a clue_. Being a shadow in Winterfell had its advantages. With the staggering amount of food the king's men consumed each meal, no one had paid any attention when Jon helped himself to a generous supply of dried meat and smoked cheese. With Winterfell teeming with servants, squires and freeriders, it had become easier to sneak around the castle. Jon used his copy of the keychain he had so long ago taken off the Maester's Turret, and he hoped the missing jewellery would not be noticed until he and his brother were well on their way to White Harbor. _Don't allow him to get to you_ , Jon told himself as he now shifted under Greyjoy's fingers, _in a couple of days it won't matter._ The royal hunt was to leave tomorrow; they would escape overmorrow, Robb from the hunting camp and Jon from Winterfell, and with Jon spreading into the wind rumours of his wish to join the Night's Watch, their pursuers would lose precious time chasing them northwards when they would be truly headed southwards. He and Robb would have horses to ride, food for the journey and hopefully enough jewels and coin to purchase themselves a ship passage down the narrow sea. Everything was set and ready. _Assuming, of course, that Robb plays his part_.

That thought cut deeply at Jon, and as an echo Greyjoy pressed on. "I've seen the way you look at us," he said. "You know I have him in my chamber every night."

Jon knew; he was hardly blind. He could not have missed the sight of Robb leaving the feast, drunk and swaying, supported by Greyjoy's arm. His father's ward had made sure to send a nasty look his way, a smug smile dancing on his lips. Jon ordered himself to erase that gnawing thought of Robb, his mop of curls neatly combed back and his clean-shaven face leaning into the curve of Greyjoy's shoulder, and the disturbing familiarity of their touch. He could not think of it. He had to focus, he had to let it go for now. _I'll have all the time in the world later. I'll fuck him until he cries and begs forgiveness, until he's broken and mine, mine forever_. "You wonder what I do to him, don't you, Snow?" Greyjoy drawled. "You wonder if he likes it better."

Down by the yard, Joffrey's sword connected with Robb's leg. Bran cried in dismay. Robb stumbled backwards but kept his balance; he managed to block the next swing. "What is it you want, Greyjoy?" Jon asked slowly.

"I'm not as cruel as you think," Greyjoy said. "I'll put your mind at ease." His fingers pulled on the tunic and drew Jon close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on his face. "I don't fuck him, Snow, not yet. I'm saving it for later." His words came out as faint as a whisper. "When your father takes off your head, I'll be there to comfort your brother. Don't worry, you'll leave him in good hands."

Jon swallowed quietly. _Don't listen_. If Sansa was to be trusted, and there was no reason to doubt his sweet half-sister, his father meant to send him away with Uncle Benjen once the king returned to the capital. Jon had not told Robb of the letter their sister had seen in their father's study. He could not allow his brother any hope. _What if Robb thinks the Wall would not be that bad, what if he chooses them over me –_

"You know what I like best?" Greyjoy asked softly; the wind from the window tousled his fine dark hair. "Those little hums he makes when he sucks on my fingers. He has such an eager little mouth, doesn't he? Can you tell me if he also hums like that when he sucks cock?" He gave a short chuckle. "I guess I'll find out soon enough."

"We'll see," Jon said, eyes narrowed.

Greyjoy cocked his brow at him. "You had me fooled at first, Snow. I'd believed you only wanted Winterfell. But you're more fucked up than this, aren't you? Life's wronged you, and you'll make Robb pay for it. I've seen you in the godswood," he added quietly. "I don't think you were pretending, not you, you weren't playing at all." His finger fluttered over Jon's cheek and he smiled as Jon swatted it away. "It's less a game than Robb would ever realise, I bet."

 _A lot less_ , but Jon would never admit to that willingly, certainly not to Greyjoy. Robb had so much power just by the mere fact of his birth, and it was the most delicious feeling to have him on his knees, obedient as a small child, in tears and shivers. The fact of control over his brother was intoxicating; most times Jon could not tell pleasure and revenge apart. Robb had never protested, though. He had always urged him on with his careful little insults. _He likes that, he must, he would fight Joffrey and his wooden sword until he dropped in the mud, but he would willingly submit to me_. And yet. There was a grain of truth in every joke, their lord father used to say, and there was a grain of the very real in their games.

"What matter is it to you?" he glowered.

"We're not so different, you and I," Greyjoy said, and then his mouth was at Jon's ear. "Be at my chamber tonight, Snow." At Jon's startled look he added softly: "I still think we should've had you drowned, but Robb would see you before we leave." Without waiting for an answer, he let go of Jon's tunic and turned on his heels.

"Why would you help us?" Jon called after him. "Why should I trust you?"

"You shouldn't," Greyjoy shrugged. "Don't come." He gave Jon a wide smile before slouching off down the staircase leading back to the yard. "More for me."

 

It was a trick, Jon told himself. He would not come and that was final.

He sagged back on the bench, his fingers clutching the ale cup in his hand. Ghost slightly stirred by his legs as Jon fixed his eyes on the high dais, where Robb was caught in an animated conversation with Uncle Benjen. To his right sat little Princess Myrcella, who smiled stupidly each time Robb had helped her to ladle out food from the trencher into her plate. In a way, it was easier for Jon to see his brother confused, as he had been in the sept, than to see him following the path he had been born to walk. _This is meant to be his life, feasts and princesses_. Perhaps Father would have Robb betrothed to the little princess just like he did with Sansa and Joffrey. Lady Stark would surely be pleased by that, with her little daughter a queen, her precious son a prince. That lordly mask would then swallow Robb completely. He would look at his bastard brother and the oaths they had sworn to each other as merely a childhood folly. _By gods I'll tear him away from all of this_ , Jon swore to himself as the ale burnt down his throat. _Before it's too late._

After the words exchanged with Greyjoy by the windowsill, Jon had spent the rest of the day drifting aimlessly through the castle grounds, his mind swarming with jumbled thoughts. As much as he tried to look confident in his plans of escape, he knew very well they could fail, and miserably so; they might even be caught before they managed to set foot in White Harbor. There was a chance he would never get to see Robb again. That mere thought had hurt deeply, and now, faced with Greyjoy's proposal, the pain seemed to double. _Greyjoy is not to be trusted_ , he had reminded himself as he wandered at random by the king's men near the stables, through the thick steam of the bustling kitchens, up the staircase to the ramparts and past the western guardhouse. _And yet…_

The Great Hall slowly cleared while Jon had been lost in his thoughts. The little ones were sent to bed, little lords, princes and servants' children alike. The queen had retired even earlier, her face blank and her pretty lips drawn into a thin line, accompanied by her handsome twin brother, the Kingslayer. With a grimace Jon recalled how only this morning Arya, curious as a kitten, had swamped him with endless questions about the Kingslayer. Did he really stab the Mad King in his back? How could King Robert still trust him, then? And the Imp, wasn't he a devious creature of evilness? Did he truly snatch babes from their cots and eat them? Why was he allowed to come, then? Robb bristled at those words; his eyes had turned cold. "I would not have Father's guests insulted under his roof," the little lordling chided them both.

 _Even without Greyjoy I would've lost him to the fetters of his status,_ Jon thought, watching through the rim of his cup as his brother rose from his seat to bid goodnight to the drunken king and to his parents _._ His eyes gleamed under the light of the new wrought-iron chandelier, with his curls hanging over his brow so thick and inviting to the touch. _My brother, mine_. Jon caught himself staring again. _By rights I should have him._ Greyjoy followed Robb, bowing to the king with a smile on his vile face. As they both passed down the dais and through the lower benches, Greyjoy slid his arm over Robb's shoulders, and Robb looked back. His eyes locked on Jon's. Bright blue, pleading.

Just one look. That was all it took.

Jon downed the remains of his ale, his fingers combing through Ghost's soft fur. He counted a minute, then two. The king laughed, loud as a lion's roar. Lady Stark stifled a yawn. Jon rose from his seat with such force that he surprised even himself. He pushed aside a drunken squire who had fallen asleep with his head on the table and snot, ale and drool gathering at the curve of his chin. He wriggled out of the bench, and with a thick sense of foreboding he left the Great Hall and made for the Keep.

He had not been in Greyjoy's chambers since that awful night a few years back, when Robb had got it into his head that they needed to learn how to get drunk. It seemed to Jon that Greyjoy had derived as much pleasure from making Robb beg for it as he had from watching them vomit and pass out, as miserable as a pair of wet mice. "Please, Theon, another cup," Robb implored, eyes big and sweet. "Jon and I are old enough." Greyjoy laughed derisively. "You're just children," he sneered at them from the height of his sixteen years. "We are one-and-ten," Robb pleaded, but Jon sulked silently behind him. He had not trusted Greyjoy even then, and he was right not to. Greyjoy let Robb sleep the drink off under his furs, but he kicked Jon out into the corridor, shivering, coughing and barely conscious. It was a mistake when they were children, Jon knew, and an even greater mistake now.

All thought, however, had left his mind when the door to Greyjoy's bedchamber opened to his knock and it was his brother who pulled him inside. Ghost scurried between Jon's legs to nuzzle with Grey Wind, as Robb shut the door behind them and pinned his own brother back with all the force of his weight. His lips were on Jon's mouth, clumsy and eager, tasting heavily of wine.

"Missed you," Robb breathed. "Terribly, terribly. Missed you." He sent his hand to bar the door behind Jon's back, and his other hand crawled down Jon's waist and under his tunic, searching for warm skin.

"Not so fast, little lord," Greyjoy said.

He was slumped languidly on a wide chair by the corner of the room, behind him a massive oaken desk overflowing with half-filled wine pitchers and fruit bowls. Robb sighed and broke the kiss, sinking his head into the nook of Jon's shoulder. _So warm, so close._ Jon leant back against the heavy door and wrapped his arms tightly around his brother. He allowed himself a moment to simply inhale Robb's scent and lose himself in the warmth of his embrace.

"He wants to play," he heard Robb say.

"I hear you like games, Snow," Greyjoy drawled. "Come-into-my-castle, Rape-me-in-the-godswood… I didn't realise you were such a jolly boy." Jon glowered silently and Robb tightened his hold on his waist. "Well, here's my game," Greyjoy said. "Let's see if you want in."

"Your game." Jon said slowly. "What is it?"

"There's just one rule. Easy enough to remember," Greyjoy smiled. "Tell him, Robb."

Robb hesitated before answering. He pressed his cheek on Jon's shoulder, the way he would do when they had lain sweaty and spent in each other's arms so long ago. His lips trailed over Jon's neck. _So close_. "We do what he says," he muttered.

"Everything I say," Greyjoy leered.

Jon felt his anger resurface, his blood boiling at the sheer thought of having to obey that whoreson's commands just to be near his brother. _My own brother, mine by right. Him, his noble face, his birthright, his everything._ "Forget it," he growled.

Greyjoy shrugged and turned to pour himself a cup from one of the pitchers behind him, but Robb persisted with slowly nuzzling into Jon's skin. "Please, Jon," he whispered. "We leave tomorrow. It might be the last time." Jon stiffened, but Robb continued his line of kisses up to his chin.

"Yes, Snow," Greyjoy readily agreed. "You may be dead soon enough, won't you do this for your brother?"

 _For him, yes, but not for you_. "No," Jon said. "It's sick."

"That's funny coming from you, bastard," Greyjoy said, eyes still fixed on the brothers by the door.

"Please, Jon," Robb's lips were on his cheeks, _so close_ , and Jon was slowly buckling. "I don't care what he wants us to do. I would do it. I'd fuck the entire castle if that's what it takes."

Greyjoy chortled. "Very gallant, little lord." _He enjoys himself. Oh, how he does_. For a moment Jon was very close to pushing his brother aside and pouncing on Greyjoy with fists drawn, just to wipe that pompous smirk off his face. "But there's no need," Greyjoy continued, taking a sip from his cup. "I told you, Snow, I'm not as cruel as you think. I won't have you do anything –" he dragged out the last word, "sick."

Robb pressed his lips on Jon's again, soft and moist with that heady flavour of Arbor gold and his own dizzying scent. His hips pushed against Jon and beneath the thick wool of his breeches Jon could already feel his hardness. _So excitable, always was_ , Jon thought, _and by gods he should be mine_. "Please," Robb whispered. "Jon."

And Jon gave in.

"What would you have us do?" he asked sullenly.

Greyjoy settled back in the chair, arms crossed behind his head, seemingly smug at Jon's defeat. "See, Snow, I've promised little Lord Robb here I'd teach you how to make it good for him," he softly said.

 _Has he truly asked for that?_ Jon had always assumed that it _was_ good for Robb. Yes, he had hurt him in countless subtle and less than subtle ways: he had tied his hands too tightly; entered him far too roughly; pulled on his hair hard enough to make him yelp; doled out humiliations at him to make his face burn with indignation. _But Robb likes that, he asks for it, and he shouldn't complain, he has so much already._ Jon's eyes darkened and Robb looked back suppliantly at Greyjoy. "Theon, don't –"

"Hush now, Robb," Greyjoy said. "Come here, both of you. Need to see you better."

 _We're just a mummer's farce for him to enjoy_. After a brief hesitation, Jon stepped into the chamber and Robb followed after, his arm still wound around his brother's waist. _But I'd appear more of a fool to back out now_. The direwolves skulked by their masters' legs, and then settled on the furs by the hearth, Grey Wind's little snout buried in Ghost's snowy mane.

"That's better," said Greyjoy. He took another swig from his wine. "Now undress each other, boys."

 _Fuck you, smug little shit_. Jon yanked hard on the ties of Robb's breeches, drawing him closer. "Slowly," Greyjoy ordered.

"He gets off on this, you know," Robb slurred as his hands went under Jon's tunic, caressing his brother through his undershirt, "slow and warm and gentle…" _How would you know?_ Jon asked himself as he helped his brother pull off the tunic. _Did he get you off like that?_ He kissed Robb down his chin to his neck before taking off his grey tunic, its wool as soft as befitting a little lord, not the coarser fabric of Jon's clothes. _Is he slow? Does he have you begging?_ When he now unlaced Robb's breeches, Greyjoy didn't stop him, and Robb almost hissed as Jon's hand fluttered over his erection. _And warm? Does he keep you warm in those cold nights, when I'm not there?_ Robb pulled down on Jon's breeches, and then they were just in their smallclothes. Robb was pressing so close to him that he could feel the softness of the wisps of auburn hair on his lower stomach and the hardness of his cock just against his thighs. _Is he gentle, Robb? He doesn't hurt you like I do, I bet. He enters you with honeyed words and sweet caresses._ Their mouths met again, less clumsy this time, their tongues rubbing longer and slower. Jon did not know if this was what they truly wanted to do, or what Greyjoy did.

"Underclothes too," Greyjoy said. "Don't be shy, I've seen you both naked before."

He had, after practice sessions, when they had discarded their sweat-drenched clothes to dip their bruised bodies into the calming waters of the hot pools. And he had, perhaps, seen Robb naked in a different way, inside that tent on the way to the Dreadfort, or in his bed, crumpling under Greyjoy's slow touch. Those thoughts only served to make Jon feel more vulnerable when he grudgingly removed his underclothes. Robb did too; he looked broader, his muscles tighter, less a child than the last time Jon had seen him fully nude. He shuffled his feet, his cheeks flushed and his gaze lowered under his long lashes, but he had enough wine in him to quickly lose what little shame he had. His fingers ran down Jon's chest as he pulled him closer again and gingerly brushed against him.

"Lay your brother on the furs, Snow, before he spends himself all over you," Greyjoy said and motioned to Grey Wind and Ghost by the cackling fire. "There, by the hearth, next to your dogs. It's only appropriate."

Jon threw him a scowl, but he led Robb to the furs all the same. After a thought, just to have the tiniest rush at Robb's compliance, Jon pushed down on his shoulders until his brother slowly went to his knees before him. _That's right, sweet Robb. I still rule over you._ Jon followed down on his own knees and laid Robb on the furs. Even as naked as on their nameday, it was warm and cosy there, snuggled between the softness of his brother's skin and their wolves' fur.

"Kiss him, Snow, all over," Greyjoy said. "Do it nice. Show me how much you can make him moan."

 _Better than you can, I bet_. Jon splayed his palm over his brother's cheek as he scattered kisses on his lips, down his chin, sliding over the delicate skin of his neck. "Robb?" he whispered to his ear, as quietly as he could, hoping the cackles of the fire would drown his voice. Robb nodded slowly. "I got it all ready," Jon muttered. "You will come, swear it." He moved his hand down his brother's chest slowly, fingers fluttering over his nipple until Robb shuddered, the lines of his jaw slackened and a moan, a first of many, escaped his lips.

"Did Father talk to you? Or Uncle Benjen?" he whispered. "Did they tell you anything at all?"

 _Looking for an escape route, as always_. Jon trailed with lips and tongue down Robb's neck, over his collarbone to join his fingers down his chest. Robb squirmed underneath him. _I won't let you have this hope_. His hands moved lower to rest on his inner thighs, slightly rubbing against his erection. _If I can't have Winterfell, neither will you. I'll tear you away from all of it, by gods_.

"Uncle didn't tell me a thing," Jon said. This wasn't a complete lie. "And Father… he would have my head." This was.

Robb tensed. "I won't let anyone hurt you," he said.

"Swear to me you'll come," Jon insisted.

"Too much talking," Greyjoy interrupted their whispering. He took a final gulp from his cup, thrust it back on the desk, and then stood up from his chair and walked to the hearth. "Go on, Snow. It's moans I want to hear."

And moans were what he heard. Greyjoy settled on his knees behind Robb's head, and his slender fingers entwined in his curls, pinning the little lordling down to the furs as he writhed and quivered. Jon trailed with his mouth down from his nipples to his stomach, savouring his taste, inebriating and incredibly sweet. _I'll make him moan, you whoreson, just wait and see_. Jon pushed Robb's legs apart with his hands and locked eyes with him before he wrapped his mouth around his brother's hard, pulsating cock. Robb arched his back, groaned as distressfully as he had the first time Jon did it in the library tower, a lifetime ago. _See how he moans_.

"Is it good, Robb?" Greyjoy asked, and Jon was staggered by the sudden tenderness in his voice. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," Robb blurted out as Jon's lips started moving faster along his length, sucking hard and mercilessly, his tongue laving at the head each time he bobbed his head back. Robb panted hard under Greyjoy's hands in his hair as Jon opened up to take his cock as deeply as he could, until he felt its head rubbing against the entrance to his throat. "Gods, Jon." He squirmed so wildly that Jon had to hold him down by his wrists.  _Pinned down by four hands. Not so lordly now, are you, Robb?_

"But it's never enough, is it, little lord?" Greyjoy's voice was soft. "You need him inside you. You want your own brother to fuck you."

" _Gods_ ," Robb whined. "Yes. Yes." Jon drew back at those words, his hands still holding Robb's wrists.

"Snow." Greyjoy's eyes were on him; they watched one another silently for a moment with Robb breathing heavily between them. "Go ahead," Greyjoy finally said, his face breaking into a smile as he ran his fingers over Robb's cheek. "I kept him well-prepared for you. Tell your brother, Robb."

"Theon, please," Robb quietly said.

 _Let it go, don't let him get to you, all the time in the world later_. But Jon heard himself speak, his voice hoarse, his anger as familiar as the taste of his brother still lingering on his lips. "Tell me, Stark."

"It's nothing," Robb insisted.

Greyjoy chortled. "Quite a lot of nothing, too."

Jon tightened his fingers over his brother's skin. "What did he do to you? Tell me."

"He made me –" Robb said. "Threatened me."

"Didn't require a lot of convincing, though," Greyjoy said.

" _What_ did he do to you?" Jon now growled, his face menacingly close to his brother's.

"Just – wanked me off," Robb mumbled. "And – had his fingers –"

"You let him put his hands on you?" Jon snarled. "In you, Stark? After what he did? Did he make you come with his fingers in your ass?"

"Screaming my name," Greyjoy leered. "Does it make you mad, Snow?"

 _Is this your game? Is that the reason you did it, to make me mad?_ Jon knew he should control himself. They both had made their mistakes, and they would have all the time in the world later, _all the time in the world and more…_  but the anger, and the terrible hurt, and the thought of Greyjoy wrapping his hand over Robb's cock, slipping those wet fingers inside him, wrenching those sweet moans out of his brother's mouth, it was all but unbearable. _My brother, mine by right._ Jon glared at them both, and Robb turned his head and looked away, burying his nose into the wool of Greyjoy's breeches.

"Oh, I bet it does," Greyjoy said. "You're a hateful little lad, like all of your kind. You want Robb only to yourself. You want to punish him now, don't you? You want to hurt him, make him cry and scream. That's what you always do to him." Greyjoy brought his face closer to Jon's. "Someday, you think, you'll get so angry you might kill him."

Jon glowered, but didn't answer. His fingers burrowed into Robb's wrists so furiously that he thought he heard a choked sob from the little lordling hiding his face in the wool of the whoreson's breeches. _Let him cry,_ he thought, _let him cry._

"Yes, I can see how angry you are," Greyjoy said. "You'd fuck him so hard he won't be able to walk for days. Wouldn't you? I bet you would if you could." And he raised one of his hands from Robb's head to curl it in Jon's hair instead. "But here's what you're going to do, Snow," he said softly. "You're going to fuck him, aye, I've promised him that, but you're going to do it slowly, and gently, and you will not hurt him. Not even one little bit. Do you understand?"

Robb looked back now, his eyes moist, and Jon's anger muddled with pity and other, nameless emotions. _Let him cry and beg forgiveness,_ he thought, _but we'll have all the time for that later, all the time in the world and more_. He slowly nodded. "I won't hurt him," he said.

He kissed his brother's chapped, bruised lips and tasted the salt of tears and sweat from his skin. "Look at me, Robb," he told him as he rubbed his cock against his entrance. "Ignore him." He slowly laved the curve of his neck until Robb was squirming again. "Just me, Robb. Just me," he told him, and when he entered him, it was slow, and gentle, and his brother draped his arms around him. Jon rested his head in the hollow of Robb's shoulder and sucked on his soft skin, slowly boring deeper into him. _So warm, so close_. Greyjoy kept one hand in Robb's hair, another in Jon's, bringing them together.

"Just like that," he whispered to them.

Robb whimpered from between Greyjoy's knees, shivering under Jon's steady thrusts.  _Is that what you like, Robb?_  Jon thought as his hips sank lower into his brother.  _You'd fight Prince Joffrey and his wooden sword, but here between the furs… you're powerless._

"Feels good, Robb? Your bastard brother inside you?" Greyjoy asked again. "He's a little shit, truly, he'd hurt you without a second thought. But you still love him, don't you?"

"Love him," Robb groaned as Jon pushed fully inside him.

"You'd do anything for him, wouldn't you? Anything."

Robb looked up at Greyjoy, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, his fingers digging helplessly at Jon's back. "Anything," he mouthed.

Jon pulled out almost entirely, then slowly entered back, drawing more moans from his brother. Greyjoy's fingers tightened on his sweaty mess of black curls. "You're being rude, Snow," he told him. "Your brother just told you he loved you."

 _It's just a game for you, you whoreson. You have never loved a soul in your life_. "Love you too," Jon forced himself to mutter as his thrusts grew more erratic, "love you."

"Love you," Robb repeated after him, and Jon read the promise in his reddened skin, in his damp curls, in his loose mouth and his quivering lips, in the way he whimpered each time Jon buried himself whole inside him. Greyjoy's hands meant nothing, his words were wind. In a couple of days all of this wouldn't matter. _I'll come with you_ , Robb's eyes said in their bright blue and their slow tears, _to Dorne and back again. To the end of the world, brother._

"Touch yourself, Robb," Greyjoy said quietly. "Look at your brother when you come." Robb bit on his lip as his hand trailed to his cock under Jon's heaving chest. A few quick strokes were all he needed, and his eyes were on Jon as he shivered and buckled to the furs, seed spurting between their slick, joined bodies; his shuddering brought Jon over as well. He plunged himself completely inside Robb and pressed their brows together while, even if only for a fleeting moment, he claimed his brother back again.

He sighed softly as he felt his body slacken over Robb's, their eyes closing in that bliss of complete release. Robb hummed contentedly from underneath him, lips rubbing against his cheek. Jon would have loved nothing else but to just stay like that, to fall asleep in his brother's arms, steal the last moments of sweetness they would ever have in Winterfell.

"Time to leave," Greyjoy said. "It's my turn."

Jon opened his eyes, startled, and Robb froze.

"Haven't we agreed, Snow?" Greyjoy leered at him. "Everything I say."

 

The hunting party had left early in the morning, but Jon had not come outside to see them off. He told himself he did not want to risk his lord father's wrath, but in truth he was too scared of finding a different promise in Robb's eyes, to discover that something had change from the moment Jon had fled like a wet mouse and left his brother under Greyjoy's thumb again. _I couldn't do anything else_ , he tried to tell himself, _he would have handed us over to Father without a second thought_ , but anger and self-loathing were a bitter taste at the back of his throat. That sense of foreboding thickened inside him as he sauntered behind the broken tower with Arya at his heels.

"Here's far enough, Jon," his little sister told him. Nymeria barked as if in agreement, and Ghost trailed behind her.

"We don't want anyone watching," he reminded her. "Your lady mother would like it not, believe me."

Arya had been utterly disappointed when she was forbidden to ride with the royal hunt. Her face fell dark and glum, and it did not help to mention that even Bran was not allowed to join. "Bran is two years younger than me," she sulked. "He's a _child_." To ease her mind Jon had offered to help her practice her archery. _It would not hurt me to think of something else, too, something other than Robb in those furs, and Greyjoy's fingers, and…_

The northern wall behind the broken tower seemed a secluded enough spot. Jon placed the quiver full of arrows on the ground, along with the few bows he had taken off the armoury.

"Alright," Jon said. "Here'll do."

"Why so many bows?" Arya asked.

"Because you're so skinny, little sister," Jon said. "I didn't know which of them would even fit you. We need to go ahead and try."

They never had the chance to find out, because just then Nymeria howled, a ferocious wail that was answered by one of her brothers or sisters deeper within the castle grounds. Ghost glared with his blood-red eyes at his master, and then darted back towards the broken tower. Nymeria yowled again and dashed after Ghost.

"What in seven hells got into them," Arya muttered.

"Mayhaps we should go and see," Jon suggested.

They found the direwolves at the front of the broken tower, next to the entrance to the crypt of Winterfell. Shaggydog and Bran's direwolf were there too, and that sense of foreboding which had clung to Jon's chest threatened to choke him. The wolves howled, miserably, circling a small body sprawled limply on the ground. Jon halted, gasped.

"Arya," he said. "Run. Get help."

She took one look and sped towards the castle yard, a wail caught between her lips. He could hear her screams in the distance, the start of a commotion, as he forced himself to kneel down in front of the boy slumped on the ground, his thick auburn locks soaked wet with blood. Bran was still conscious, but only in the loosest sense of the word. Apart from the cuts on his face and on the back of his head, Jon could barely see any blood on his little brother's body, but the position of his legs seemed unnatural, his back twisted.

"Bran?" he whispered. "Can you hear me?"

The child didn't answer, but his eyes fluttered at the sound of Jon's voice.

"We're getting help, you'll be fine," Jon found himself saying whatever words came to his mind, just to keep the boy awake. _Keep him alive_. "Maester Luwin will help you. Don't move. You'll be fine, we've got you."

The child looked at Jon without seeming to recognise him. His choked whisper wrenched a spurt of fresh blood from his mouth. "Father."

"What, Bran?" Jon asked. "What of him?"

"They'll kill him," said Bran. His eyes fell shut.


End file.
